The Wolf Legacy
by MorganEnjoysFanfiction
Summary: Derek is a trained killer, working for the government since he was sixteen years old. Stiles gets caught in the crossfire as he runs for his life. Together they cross the country looking for answers, finding way more than they bargained for. A Bourne Legacy esque Sterek AU. Cross posted to AO3.
1. Prologue

**AN:** I do not own Teen Wolf, or the Bourne movies.

* * *

Derek Hale was twenty-eight years old. He was currently sitting in a tiny, small town diner somewhere deep in the Canadian woods. The only real customers here were loggers and the few people who lived in the area. And government assassins, of course. That's what he was now. Had been for a long time, after Kate – but it was a long time ago. It tasted bitter on his tongue, worse than the sludge of coffee the diner served. But he needed to be seen as a human here; assassins don't typically let themselves be seen. Unless their method of killing involved turning into a gigantic wolf and ripping people to shreds.

The matronly waitress, Dolores, refilled his coffee with a smile. Derek grimaced back, hoping she'd understand he didn't know how to smile to people who were kind to him.

His target walked in then. Derek knew without glancing around; he'd smelled him from a mile away. The man was some defected defense program writer, a CIA operative, a fucking dog walker, fuck, he had no idea. He had no idea why he had to kill this man. All he knew was that he was supposed to.

"Coffee, black, to go," the man muttered to Dolores, who obliged with an air of motherly kindness.

"That all I can get for you, dear?"

He didn't answer but left in a flurry. Derek poured his coffee down his throat and followed him.

* * *

The man's cabin was isolated, to put it mildly. There were no satellites but a generator chugged methodically in a shed to provide a single lightbulb's radiance and powered the outside lights, currently off. Derek breathed deeply from his post behind a tree and picked up the ozone smell of a computer being heavily used. He glanced up. The perimeter was snaked with tripwires connected to large floodlights. He cracked his neck and sighed again. It was too cold for this. Snow was starting to fall lightly in the night. Werewolves ran hot, sure, and he wasn't in the least worried about frostbite or hypothermia, but what man didn't want a warm bed on a cold night?

He shook his head again like a dog shaking off irritating flies. Thoughts about a lack of warmth in his bed. Thoughts about not having a bed for years. He shook his head harder and began shrugging off his clothing, hanging it with care on a branch just at his reach. When he was naked, he allowed his bones to crack and elongate, transforming into a large, black and silver wolf. He was hungry.

The floodlights ignited and the target, wearing only long johns and clutching a double barreled shotgun, rushed outside. He pointed the gun wildly into the woods and screamed, "I don't want to go back! I'm not going back, d'you hear me?! I'll blow your fucking head off!"

His breath fogged in the night air, snow blowing around him like bits of ash. He gestured around again, scanning the tree line frantically. Derek stepped forward, his padded feet making no noise upon the ground. "Fuck," breathed the man. He backed up towards the door, but his face showed relief more than fear. Pointing the gun into the air, he fired once, trusting in the animal instincts of a normal, hungry wolf.

Derek wasn't normal. He stepped forward again, fully visible under the glaring light, a low, threatening growl just discernible over the pounding heartbeat of his soon-to-be-victim.

"Fuck," the man said again. His back was pressed against the door. With shaking hands he lowered the shotgun and fired the second round at Derek. It was point blank range. He missed. But not for lack of trying.

Derek had sprung out of the way too quickly to see and landed impressively several feet away, growling even louder. He stepped forward once more, disgusting strings of drool hanging from his jowls. Then, with a mighty leap, he pounced on his target and landed squarely on his chest. Underneath his paws, Derek felt several ribs crack, and beneath that, the man's wildly beating heart.

"Please, please God -"

Derek was not God.

And yet, he felt something in his brain turn on. Like a light switch.

"Why do they want you dead?" His whole body creaked as he transformed back into a man. His target writhed in pain, smelling of terror and, Derek noted, a hit of embarrassment. It wasn't every day a large, naked man pinned you to the ground in the dark.

"Fucking why should I tell you? You're my murderer, why do you care?"

"Why the fuck do they want you dead?!" His fingernails, morphing into claws, clutched the man's neck, sprouting pinpricks of blood against his pale flesh.

"Be-because I wouldn't do what they wanted! I – and then they killed her! I wouldn't give in to them!"

Derek sat up on his haunches, eyes bright blue. He cocked his head to the side in confusion, in a very wolf-like fashion. "The hell are you talking about?" He gave the man time to regain a modicum of composure. He was impatient though, and soon another low, annoyed growl filled the air. The man eventually sat up, wincing horribly, and clutched his chest. He looked at Derek, glancing at his naked body, and began to speak.

"I was a programmer for a defense contractor. I developed weapons guidance systems."

"Did you sell them to a foreign government?" Derek stopped growling. He was curious.

"No! I'm – I'm not a traitor!"

Derek waited.

The man took a deep breath and continued. "I – I met a woman. A beautiful, amazing... she was everything to me. Her name was Karishma. And she... she was." His eyes glazed over in a sad remembrance.

"Was what?" Derek was growing somewhat impatient again.

His target shook his head, reminiscent of Derek not five minutes before. He sighed and murmured, "She was a miracle. Karishma means -"

"Miracle. I know."

The man mustered up one of the dirtiest looks he'd ever seen.

"We were so in love. I loved her so – but the defense department, because she was Pakistani, they wanted her out of the way. They thought she was a spy, or something, but – she wasn't! She loved me. They told me they were going to get rid of here. So I told her to run."

Tears traced down his cheeks. Derek's mouth hardened into a thin line. "She was dealt with."

"Yes."

"Then what happened?"

"I was pulled into a white room. They kept me there for days until they were... were sure I hadn't spilled any secrets. As soon as they let me go, I ran."

Derek pinched the bridge of his nose. "You ran, even though you were innocent. Human stupidity continually astounds."

He stared into Derek's glowing blue eyes, resigned. "I loved her. They didn't deserve me anymore."

They stood together in the rapidly gathering snow.

Finally Derek stood and stretched, muscles rippling. The man began to panic. He whimpered, "Are you going to kill me now?"

Derek shook his head. "I didn't find you." He began walking back into the tree line.

"The fuck!" The man struggled to stand up, still clutching at his cracked ribs. He wheezed with the effort. "Why did you – why – fucking why would you make me tell you all this?! And now you're just leaving?!"

"Yes," Derek said shortly. He was almost out of the perimeter. The floodlights shot back on, making him wince. Still he could hear his target wheezing and panting behind him.

"Others will come looking for me."

Derek found his jeans just on the edge of the forest. They had fallen off the branch and were piled in a heap with a dusting of snow on top. He growled, almost too low to hear, "Yes, they will."

"So what the hell are you going to do about it?" The target was shouting now, and his voice was rasping with pain and fear.

He shrugged his henley over his head. "I don't plan on doing anything."

The world was silent for a moment. Then, a round of birdshot hit Derek in the shoulder and face. He hadn't realized the man was reloading his shotgun. He rounded back to him, baring his fangs and roaring. Already the birdshot pebbles were being pushed out of his skin and newly healed scar tissue pushed into their place. A clawed hand wrapped around the target's soft throat. He didn't realize he was back in front of his target until he was already there, the pinpricks Derek had left a few minutes earlier bleeding anew as his claws pressed harder into the flesh.

"I have been doing this for too damn long," Derek snarled. The man choked and gasped, almost unable to breathe. "I have been killing people for a living since I was sixteen years old. I have maimed and killed so many people I can't remember all their names and that destroys me. I don't remember what it's like to have a family, or friends, or a lover. Hell, I haven't had one in ten years.

"So I'm letting you live, because I am done. I am done with this life and everything that goes with it." Derek threw the man nearly across the yard in his anger. He yelped and hit the ground with a muffled thump. They existed together in the cold, one huddled into himself in pain, and the other writhing on the ground, screaming for his lost love.

Derek shook his head one last time, wringing out the last of the birdshot from his face. His former target gasped as he walked away, "Why?"

Just one simple word.

"No one's ever loved me like someone loved you," Derek finally growled. "It gets old."

He left silently, without a backwards glance.

* * *

Dolores was still at the diner when he stumbled back in. She took one look at him and poured him a coffee. "Anything to eat, dear?" But she asked like she wasn't expecting a response.

Derek settled himself at the counter. He looked into her face and his mouth split into a real, if small, smile.

"I'll have the steak and eggs too."

* * *

Somewhere in Virginia, a nervous young man approached his superior officer with distressing news. He clutched the satellite pictures to his chest before handing them off. His superior took one look and grabbed his subordinate by the scruff of the neck. "You saw nothing," he hissed.

The uniformed man walked quickly in the opposite direction, his hands desperate on the information he held. He walked through the mazelike corridors and eventually ended up in a small, but impeccably neat office. Another man, older, balding, but with a self-contained air of extraordinary power, sat behind the mahogany desk.

"Sir, we have a very serious problem." He laid the papers on the desk and stood back nervously. The older man reached out and plucked the papers up. He reviewed them studiously, looking at the satellite pictures and the other printouts.

"Well," he murmured, "we did know this would happen to our boy eventually. Send out Alpha 2 to finish the job. And start the cleaning procedures. We have to reduce contact."

"What about the medical office?"

"I have the utmost confidence you can handle one medical unit," the older man chuckled. It was a cold sound. "We have the procedures in place. And how difficult is it to rehire medical staff? We've done this before."

The uniformed man saluted and rushed out the door. In the silence, the older man chuckled again. "Derek Hale," he whispered. "I'm sorry to see you go."


	2. I Was Going To Be A Godfather

**AN**: I do not own Teen Wolf or the Bourne movies.

* * *

As the elevator door opened with a ding, Stiles Stilinski darted through the narrow opening, his head bobbing along with the techno pop blaring through his earbuds. He spun in place and thrust his hips towards the wall just in time for a lovely nurse to pass him with a shriveling look.

"Sorry, sorry," he muttered, throwing his hands up and pocketing the earbuds. Being a respectable med student was putting a serious cramp in his style. A guilty worm in his mind reminded him if he ever wanted to be taken seriously as a doctor and a scientist, he should really be more respectful about this internship, and possibly send Dr. Deaton, his best friend's old boss, another fruit basket for calling up a friend of a friend.

"Hey, Erica, my main lady," he called out twenty feet from the reception desk. The bubblegum blonde gave him an eyebrow raise but didn't further acknowledge him. He was just an intern; therefore, below even the secretary. As he approached the desk, he saw she was filing and painting her nails.

"Oh come on, don't be like that!" Stiles gesticulated wildly. "You know I'm awesome." He spread his hands out to show off his new scrubs. They had Iron Man on them.

Erica sighed in a long suffering sort of way. "Stiles, while you are, in fact, pretty cool – which if you ever tell anyone I said I will kill you – you do realize this is a family practice, right? This waiting room is going to be filled with overbearing mothers and kids with the sniffles in about ten minutes. I have to center myself before that happens," and she gave him an appraising look, "and your... essence of Stiles is not helping." She went back to filing her nails.

Stiles snorted and rolled his eyes. "Erica, your nails are beautiful already. Maybe you should, oh I don't know, file something? Isn't that what a secretary is supposed to do?"

As he walked away towards the break room to drop off his bag, he heard Erica shout, "I have beautiful everything, thank you very much!"

He snorted again and pushed the door open, only to nearly run into his supervisor, Dr. Freeman.

"Stiles, I need you to take Dr. Whittemore's patient in exam room seven."

He whipped around so fast he nearly gave himself whiplash. Rubbing his neck, he said, "Dr. Freeman, you are aware I'm just an intern, right?"

Freeman rolled her eyes. "Yeah, no shit. I hired you myself. But he's AWOL and this guy has a standing appointment every three months. It's some kind of -" and she threw up her hands, "exit physical, I guess?"

"What the fuck is an exit physical?"

"Fuck if I know," Freeman sighed. "Either way it's just a basic examination, he has to fill out a questionnaire and a few forms, and then he's good to go." She pointed down a hallway towards the fire exit. When Stiles hesitated, she gave him a tiny shove. "Will you just get in there? I have four patients booked in the next hour. Goddamn it Erica," she muttered, walking away angrily.

Stiles stood for a moment. It was a very rare kind of moment in his life in that he was completely speechless. Sure, he knew how to examine a patient, what to look for, but to be put in charge of a patient for the entire time? Usually he filed alongside Erica, watched Freeman treat teenagers with the flu, or helped old ladies to the elevator.

He shook his head, grabbed his bag and pulled out the shiny stethoscope his father had bought him when he got the results of his MCATs. He'd hardly used it, but he felt more confident as he wrapped it around his neck. Exam room seven was the very last door on the right by the exit. Taking a deep breath, and grabbing the small file from the receptacle on the wall, Stiles opened the door.

A rugged looking man was sitting on the table. He was shirtless but still wearing dark, worn jeans. His face was stubbled and weary looking. Stiles put his body at twenty-five and his eyes at eighty.

"Heeeeeeeeeey," Stiles said with a nervous smile, spreading the word over the closing of the door. "So I'm Sti – I'm Dr. Stilinski." It sounded better.

His patient gave him an odd, appraising look. He was reminded of Erica's, without the pity only a beautiful girl could give. "Where's Dr. Whittemore?" The question came out as a low growl.

"Well, he couldn't be here today, and I'm told this is pretty routine. So anyway -"

"I would really prefer to be seen by someone who actually completed medical school," his patient said roughly, deadpanned. He twisted around to find the grey shirt he'd already discarded. "And not some Doogie Howser wannabe, either."

Stiles' typically genial face hardened. He stepped forward and pointed a finger at his patient's chest. He was trying to remain professional but failing admirably. "Look, asshole," he said, aggravated, "I can do the exam, you can fill out this stupid questionnaire, and then you can be on your way. Or you can make this difficult, cause a scene, and then I'll be forced to tell Whittemore when he gets back and he can cause a scene – I mean really, do I have to go on? I'm pretty fucking good at my job, so let me do it."

He was breathing hard. Anger always made him feel tired.

The other man's eyes were almost glowing an eerie blue, but when Stiles looked again, they were a normal hazel grey. He sat down without a word and dropped his shirt again. Stiles backed away, a bit heady with the unconscious victory. "Okay then," he muttered, ransacking the cupboards for rubber gloves and a blood pressure cuff. "So, I'm just going to take your blood pressure now." He turned back to his patient. "So what's your name?"

When the other man didn't answer, but gave him a piercing look, Stiles shrugged and wrapped the cuff around his arm. He began squeezing the cuff and looked at his watch.

"Hey man, I'm just trying to make some friendly conversation. You file is just labeled 'Alpha 1'."

"It's classified."

Stiles shrugged and released the pressure on the cuff. "110 over 60, very impressive. You must lay off the bacon and cheese sandwiches. I should probably start doing that. Got to look trim for my cousin's wedding." He chuckled to himself.

"Has anyone ever mentioned you talk too much?" The patient grumbled, but he wasn't being unfriendly.

"Many times over many years," Stiles grinned. He wrapped up the cuff and took off his stethoscope. He placed it on the other man's chest but immediately withdrew when he hissed from the cold. "Sorry, sorry," he murmured and rubbed it vigorously against his scrubs to warm it up. Again, more gently, and hopefully warmer too, he placed it over the man's heart. It was beating strongly, purposefully.

"Take some deep breaths for me," he murmured again, stepping closer to place his hand on the other man's back. Stiles moved the stethoscope over the broad chest, checking each lung, hearing only air. When he finished, he cleared his throat and said, "Alright, so here's this questionnaire thing."

* * *

Derek furrowed his eyebrows at the piece of paper. Of all the things he'd be expecting after calling his supervisor and basically saying, "I quit," a physical and a multiple choice test weren't among them.

"What kind of questionnaire?"

The doctor – Derek snorted internally; he was more likely an assistant or an intern – shrugged and handed him a pen. "Do I look like I get paid enough to know what it is? According to your chart's notes it says you fill it out, I take it, and then you leave."

He filled out the form while the doctor busied himself with his file, making occasional notes and rolling his eyes over some sections.

Derek stared at him, hard, when he returned the questionnaire. "Do you know what I do?"

He got another shrug and a non committal noise. "You're built like a house and we're less than twenty miles from Washington, D.C. I'm gonna go with Army, or maybe FBI. Like I said, they don't pay me enough for that."

"You look like the type who'd want to know anyway."

"The hell I would!" The doctor said excitedly. He looked around as though expecting repercussions for his outburst, but continued. "I mean, my best friend calls me three times a week from California and asks what I do, and he always wants to know if I get to see any CIA operatives but I mean really, how would I know? And seriously, what CIA agent is going to come into this cute little general practitioner's office? But then again some of them have got to have families. And now I can tell him I met someone named 'Alpha 1,' and that is the least creative codename ever, let me tell you. Or the most egotistical. Who needs to be first twice?"

Derek couldn't suppress a small grin. He pulled his t shirt back on and looked at the doctor. "Is that all? Am I done?"

"Yeah man, I guess so," he said, running his fingers through his brutally short hair. He opened the door. "So, yeah. Have a good one. Oh! And give this to Erica at the desk," he fumbled with a pink slip from the file, "and she'll take care of it."

Derek nodded but made no move to leave. Looking down, he said, "It's Derek."

"What?"

"My name is Derek."

Stiles smiled.

* * *

Derek's mouth quirked up as he walked towards his car on the top level of the parking garage. The black Camaro was his pride and joy, his only allowed ostentation. The Stilinski kid wasn't bad. A good first start to working his way back into the world. He'd even told him his name.

His grin got even bigger as he turned the key in the ignition. Trust. It was a cool thing.

He smelled it first, the gasoline, the C4, the sudden flame.

He heard the oxygen get sucked into a vortex of fire.

Then the world exploded, and he barely threw himself out the car before it blew apart.

"That's more like it," his whispered to himself before slipping into unconsciousness. The flaming wreckage of his Camaro rained around him.

* * *

Stiles whistled to himself in the exam room. An actual CIA agent told him his name! And smiled at him! And let him touch his bare chest...

That part of the conversation would not be shared with Scott during their tri-weekly Skype call.

He grinned again and was about to open the door when he heard a familiar, terrifying sound. It was a gunshot.

He hit the deck like his father had taught him and crouched by the door. Slowly he cracked open the door, beyond grateful that the door opened inward. Peering over the threshold, he saw two armed men patrol past the entrance of the hallway. Though he could hear the sickening thud of metal on flesh and their screams for drugs and needles, Stiles was positive he saw one motion to the other in a military hand signal. Erica was sobbing faintly around the corner. Stiles nearly got up to go to her, reaching instinctively for the Smith & Wesson knife he usually carried in his back pocket. Except he was wearing scrubs, and didn't have it on him. All he had were his car keys and depressingly empty wallet.

He started biting his nails in a panic.

"Who else is here? Who?! Where is Dr. Whittemore?!" Erica was sobbing harder.

Dr. Freeman's voice cried out, "He's not here! Look, I have the key to -"

A sharper sound, a silenced bullet, cut through the air. Erica screamed.

Another voice, colder, said, "Where is the doctor who is treating his patient?"

Stiles didn't think after that but launched himself for the back exit, wrenching it open into the bottom level of the attached parking garage. He could berate himself for his cowardice later.

The elevator had never moved so slowly. He jumped up and down waiting for it and gave up after fifteen seconds, instead racing up seven flights of stairs before collapsing, completely out of breath. "Get up Stiles, get up," he growled to himself, willing his lungs and legs to start working again. "Get the fuck up! Jesus!" A sudden burst of energy filled him and he sprinted the last three flights and was not honestly surprised to see the door leading to the top floor nearly blown off its hinges.

It was that kind of day.

He pushed it hesitantly, still out of breath from running, and it fell to the concrete with an alarming crash. A burning shell of car roared about twenty feet away, and scorch marks and shrapnel littered a fifty foot radius around it. A few pieces of concrete from the roof above had even broken through. Stiles stepped forward, but was assaulted by the smell of burning flesh. He looked around and saw what he had originally thought to be part of the car lying a few feet away was a man, a terribly burned man wearing familiar, tattered jeans.

"D-Derek? Dude, what -"

Stiles leaped back about five feet when the black and red husk rasped, "Get me into a car." Derek rolled over and hacked desperately, coughing up disgusting bits of his own lungs and the odd bit of metal. He tried to stand but his legs were too mangled and still healing. As much as he wasn't ready for it, he needed help, and the one person he'd started just barely trusting was standing next to him.

"I'm gonna take you to a hospital, man," Stiles stammered, reaching under Derek's armpits and heaving him away from the car towards him own old Jeep. It was unscathed on the other side of the garage level.

Derek pulled away with a growl and struggled again to stand. He looked at Stiles, eyes bright blue and stark against his newly scarred face.

"No hospitals!" he rasped. "Just get me in-into a car. Don't be afraid of me," he pleaded, almost whining.

"Fuck yes I'm afraid!" Stiles lost control and fell back against the wall, panting, eyes wide and wild. "There are – there are commandos with guns in the office and – and I ran away and Erica was screaming and crying and I should have been there to protect her -" Derek reached for him but he jerked away. "-and now you're dying and I'm afraid -"

"What do you mean, guys with guns?" Derek was finally on his feet, but barely. Stiles didn't miss that he was nearly naked, or that his skin was looking a lot more pink than black.

"Fucking guys with Beretta M9s. I know a military maneuver when I see one – my dad is a fucking cop, I'm not stupid." He shrugged violently and ran his hands over his hair again.

Derek tried to take a step towards him but nearly collapsed; only Stiles, moving quickly, caught him. He grunted and supported Derek's weight all the way to the car, then rearranged himself so he could push Derek, as gently as possible – which, when you've covered nearly head to toe in third degree burns, is pretty difficult – into a supine position in the backseat. He vaulted into the driver's seat, started the car, and bolted out of the parking space. The Jeep creaked and swayed into every turn.

Stiles was going to drive to the nearest hospital, no matter what Derek said, or even the nearest police station, when he felt a hand on his upper arm. Derek gripped him harder as Stiles brought the Jeep to a stop outside the parking garage.

"No hospitals," he said again, almost desperate. "I need – I need a safe place, somewhere to rest and shower."

"Where am I supposed to go?" Derek's face was almost completely healed. There were even traces of stubble sprouting. Stiles swallowed apprehensively. "Is my apartment safe?"

"It might be," Derek conceded with difficulty, "but then again." He left the words, "We both survived assassination attempts today" hanging in the air. "Where's the nearest motel?"

Stiles reached for his GPS and knocked it violently from its holster. Derek couldn't help rolling his eyes while Stiles tapped and typed into it. "It looks like there's a Motel 6 just a few blocks from here. And other one, kinda divey -"

"Motel 6. There's cash in my wallet."

"Dude. Your wallet survived that?"

Derek glowered at him. "I need a shower. And we need to talk."

Stiles went silent as he signaled for the turn. After looking both ways he pealed onto the road, keeping his eyes focused straight ahead. Derek thought he might not reply, but then he said, "I don't know what the fuck is going on. Are you going to tell me? Cause if you tell me, if you do that, I'm in all the way. They were going to kill me in there," he finished thickly.

"It's not your fault." But Derek knew that didn't mean anything. He looked at his hands. He felt a little better, but a shower, rest, and a lot of food were still vital to his recovery.

The Jeep skidded to a stop; Stiles had nearly run a red light.

"That doesn't mean anything!"

Derek noticed the echo of his own thoughts and bit back his own angry retort. Instead, he rumbled again, "It's not your fault. It's mine."

A bitter sound, half laugh, half angry cry, escaped Stiles.

"Someone just tried to kill me and everyone in your office. You're paying for me saying to my bosses that I wanted to live a normal life."

The Motel 6 sign flashed in the distance. It was still early in the morning, but the sky was grey and cold. It would probably start snowing soon.

They parked and Stiles wordlessly ran into the office. He came back out a few minutes later, and said before Derek could yell at him, "I had cash too. I don't think your wallet actually survived. Have you taken a lot at your own pants lately?"

Derek recognized the humor and sarcasm reflex. He'd killed enough people to know it was something people did when they were desperately afraid.

Stiles hauled him out and quickly ushered him into a room with two small beds and the typical kitschy aesthetic of a highway motel. He tugged him into the bathroom and turned on the bath, keeping his hand under the water to get it to the perfect temperature. Derek, meanwhile, began peeling the remains of his shirt off. It was shredded and what still remained clung to his skin, blood and burned flesh acting like glue.

Hands with long fingers and small calluses covered his. Derek looked at Stiles' face.

"I'm a doctor in training," he said with a small grin, as if that explained everything. As if that explained why Derek felt like he could trust this man.

Eventually they got the shirt off. Stiles looked at Derek's jeans with dismay and embarrassment. They were ribboned and slashed and totally soaked through with blood.

Stiles' fingers brushed against the button at his waistband and undid it with clinical efficiency. The pair of jeans collapsed then, and Derek stood there, bruised, bloody, and very naked. Averting his eyes, Stiles helped him into the full bathtub. Immediately the water turned a rusty brown, and black and red flakes of skin began falling off and drifting to the bottom. Derek groaned and held his head in his hands. His back twitched as new skin began to grow where the scabs had fallen away.

"Should I... be helping you or something?" Stiles asked.

Derek could only nod, so Stiles grabbed one of the many paper cups on the bathroom sink and filled it with water. He poured it over Derek's back, washing away more blood. A piece of glass, once belonging to the Camaro's windshield, fell into the water.

He turned to face the doctor in training. A raw sort of look on his face caught Stiles off guard.

"I don't even know your name and you're not asking me what I am. You're just helping me."

He said it all in a rush. It was the most unbelievable thing that had ever happened to him.

Again, Stiles fell silent. He lifted another cupful of water and poured it over Derek's neck.

"First off, you can call me Stiles," Stiles mused. "And you're not holding a gun on me or my friends or coworkers, and that I can appreciate. Seriously.

"I want to be a doctor to help people. I've lost a lot of people in my life, and... it's just what I've always wanted to do. So you needing my help isn't really all that different from anyone else needing my help. And I don't know you, but I want to trust you, believe me – but you can help me, and I know I can help you. So, here I am. Something is going on, and we're both kind of in the middle of it right now."

He looked down, around, anywhere but Derek's eyes.

"I'm a werewolf, and I kill people for the government."

He almost thought Stiles had left, because he stopped moving, and nearly stopped breathing. But his heartbeat continued, strong as always.

"You know, that didn't even crack the top ten list of things I thought you were going to say," he said with a small smile Derek could hear in his voice. More warm water poured over his head, washing away glass and grit from his hair. "I mean, shit, 'I murder people courtesy of the US government and I'm a creature of the night' didn't really come to mind."

Derek barked out a laugh. "Creatures of the night are vampires."

The paper cup skittered to the floor. "Do those exist too?!" His face, round and alive with excitement – for a moment, the events of the last hours forgotten – appeared in Derek's field of vision.

"I don't know."

Stiles grimaced, disappointed. He picked up the cup and continued rinsing Derek's back and arms. When the water got too filthy, he pulled the plug and they sat in silence as the drain gurgled. When it was empty, he turned the water back on and let it fill anew. The second bath, hotter than the first, pulled the stress from Derek's muscles like venom from a bite.

"You don't really do this often, do you?" Stiles murmured, more to himself than to Derek, even if it was meant for him.

"No," Derek whispered. "I've... never done this before."

"What?" Stiles pulled the plug again on the bath. "Get bathed by a sexy young thing?" His lips turned up at the corners.

"Trusted someone."

Stiles had never heard anything so sad in his life.

"So wait," he started to say, while Derek sat on the bed, the towel low slung around his hips. Stiles had gone outside to grab the overnight bag he kept in the car so he could change out of his now far too conspicuous Iron Man scrubs. "Are the other alphas werewolves too?"

"What?" Derek was confused.

"The other alphas," Stiles shrugged. He pulled off the top shirt in favor of a white undershirt and red sweatshirt. "There are others Dr. Whittemore sees."

The towel slipped from Derek's fingers as he stood, angrily approaching Stiles and pushing him against the wall.

"Jesus fuck!" Stiles cried as Derek crowded into his personal bubble. "Fuck – what, you didn't know there were others?"

"Of course I didn't!" Derek growled dangerously. "How many more are there?"

"Dude, if you want someone to trust you, start fucking earning it!" Stiles pushed Derek away, and was conscious of being allowed to move him. It was frightening, but he didn't back down. "There are two others. I've seen Alpha 2, but never Alpha 3. His chart has a picture of him though."

"Would you recognize him if you saw him again?" Derek grabbed Stiles' shoulders to focus him. "Stiles, tell me."

Stiles liked the way Derek said his name; it was desperate.

"Yeah, probably," he gestured wildly. The defense mechanism worked and Derek took a step back.

"But," he swallowed nervously and looked at Derek, "I know where to find Alpha 2."

The room was silent except for the heartbeats of the occupants.

* * *

"I memorized every zip code in the United States when I was a kid." Stiles was a little sheepish as he pulled out the huge, cross country roadmap from his Jeep. He spread it out on one of the beds and pointed to Washington state. "And every file has a billing address for insurance purposes, right? And Alpha 2 is listed here." He pointed to the west coast. "98103. It's a Seattle zip code."

"Why did you memorize all the zip codes as a kid?"

"I needed an outlet after my mother died," Stiles replied shortly.

Derek tugged uncomfortably at the striped shirt Stiles had loaned him from the bag and didn't say anything. The shirt was tight, but better than nothing. The jeans were a little better though. He rifled through the wallet that had survived, much to Stiles' delight, quite intact, and put it in his pocket. A dog eared piece of paper fell from it, and Stiles retrieved it quickly.

"Hey!" He shoved it into Derek's face. It was an old photo. "This is him! I mean, he's, like ten or fifteen years older now, but this is definitely him."

Derek grabbed Stiles' arm and ripped the photo from his grasp. "It can't be," he growled. "Everyone in that photo except for me died twelve years ago."

Stiles waved that off as a minor inconvenience. "Who is this guy?"

"He's my uncle Peter," Derek muttered, looking at it more closely. "Or, he was. Once." Before the fire.

"Well that's him." Stiles crossed his arms stubbornly. "He was here like a week ago. I remember seeing the file later, saying 'Alpha 2.' I cracked a joke with – with Erica."

Derek frowned and stared harder at his uncle's younger face. The photo was dated the day before the fire. Could some of his family have survived it?

"Hey man," Stiles placed his hand solidly on Derek's shoulder. "We still need to talk. We need to figure stuff out. I need to call -"

Derek pushed Stiles off him and stepped away. He shook his head and said, without looking at him, "You can't call anyone. It's... just better for everyone. You said you were all in right?" And he turned and looked into his eyes. Bright blue met dark brown.

Stiles shuffled in place and ran a hand through his head again. "If I call anyone, contact anyone," he said slowly, "they'll, whoever they are, trace it, and come after us, and go after my dad and my friends. Right?"

Derek nodded. They both stood together, looking at the little cluster of roads leading to Puget Sound.

"I was going to be a godfather next month." Derek sighed, wanted to reach out to comfort him, but his hand fell a few inches too short. The moment passed.

"I'm sorry." It sounded flat, even to his ears.

Stiles shook his head. "Whatever man. So, we taking my car? It's a sweet ride. I moved all the way here from California just this summer..."

Derek let him talk. Stiles deserved to ease his pain some way.

* * *

**AN part two: **I'm going to be mentioning a lot of different places across the country, most of which I've never visited, so please, don't hesitate to let me know if I've gotten something wrong or you have suggestions.


	3. Alpha 3

**AN: **I do not own Teen Wolf or the Bourne movies.

* * *

They loaded themselves into the Jeep, Derek hauling himself into the passenger's seat this time. He grabbed the GPS before Stiles and wordlessly tapped in an address about twenty miles away. Stiles looked over at him and started the car. They left without checking out.

The Jeep chugged valiantly on the highway, heading towards the deeper Virginia woods. "Culpeper, huh?" Stiles raised his eyebrows. "I've never been. Do you like living there? I'm originally from California but I came out here for med school. I got into George Washington School of Medicine," he finished proudly.

Derek raised his eyebrows and looked at the GPS. "It's a place with a bed," he shrugged, not commenting of Stiles' clear intelligence. "I don't need more than that." It was a lie. "We just need to stop to get cash and some supplies. Another car."

"I'm not stealing a car." This was already an old argument, and they hadn't been together for more than three hours.

Derek rubbed his face. "You don't have to steal a car," he said. "I will be stealing a car."

Stiles smirked disbelievingly as he moved into the fast line. The Jeep groaned but sped up, reaching a respectable seventy. "Don't go for another Camaro, alright? We'll get so caught it that. They're basically rolling speed traps, at least that's what my dad is always complaining." The pained look on Derek's face made Stiles' smile falter. "I mean, I'm sorry about your car. It was a cool car. I didn't -"

"It's fine." Derek looked out the window, walking the grey countryside and grey buildings and grey advertisements flash by. "It doesn't matter."

They were silent for another five miles.

"So, remember when I said I was going to be a godfather?" Even though the subjects of his friends and family clearly hurt Stiles, an effervescent sense of joy still clung to him. Derek almost couldn't be in the same room with someone who had such a constant source of happiness. He even smelled joyous, like a candy cane. Derek inhaled deeply, reminded of himself once, a long, long time ago.

"Yeah, well, my buddy Scott and his wife Allison have been together since we were sixteen. I mean, they are the perfect couple. Even when her dad threatened to shoot him – and that is a hilarious story in retrospect, let me tell you – he still wanted to be with her. He's a stubborn asshole but when he is in love, boy, he is in love.

"Anyway, they eloped in college. His mom cried and cried when she found out because she hadn't been invited – they only invited me as their witness at the city hall, which, I mean, I was beyond honored, you have no idea – but after we all graduated they had a big frou-frou wedding, tuxes and frilly dresses and all that good stuff. The only time I ever got to dance with Lydia Martin, except for that one formal dance in sophomore year, but that doesn't count, right?"

Stiles looked to Derek for confirmation but Derek was still staring out the window.

"She died though," he hesitated. A lot of sadness threatened behind those words, and Derek staunchly kept from looking at him. "Yeah, right after that. Car accident. I mean, I didn't think anything could hurt Lydia – not her parents' divorce, or Jackson leaving her, hell, she was attacked by a mountain lion in school and fucking walked it off. But she was drunk, she kinda took to drinking after school even though she was almost done with grad school by twenty-one – did I mention she was fucking brilliant? She was the final push I needed to apply to med school. I mean, I always knew I wanted to do something like that, but just knowing her mind wasn't going to be out there anymore, I almost lost it. I was really in love with her once, but I think that was just because she was so smart and beautiful – she fucking defined feminine beauty, okay? But when I went to college I, uh, discovered new things and people and we ended up just becoming great friends."

Silence had never been more awkward.

"But my godson!" Stiles cleared his throat and backpedaled. Their exit was rapidly approaching. "Yeah, I mean when Scott and I became friends in middle school we would say we were going to name our kids after each other, although I'm pretty sure he was lying, cause he didn't know my real name until we were seventeen -"

"Stiles isn't your real name?" Derek's face was open with confusion.

Stiles couldn't contain his laughter. He affably pushed Derek's shoulder. "Did you seriously think there were people out there who would name their child 'Stiles Stilinski'? You sound like my old lacrosse coach."

Derek shrugged, falling inward on himself again. "I don't really know."

"Dude, it's okay. I'm not going to tell you what it is though."

It took a moment for Derek to spit out, "I don't really know what people do. I'm... kind of a loner."

Stiles couldn't respond to that.

They drove off the highway exit in another uneasy silence and the GPS commanded they turn left. As they left the highway behind, Derek turned again to Stiles and said quietly, "So what about your godson?"

"What about him?" Stiles was concentrating on the road, and trying not to say anything else that would make Derek so awkwardly uncomfortable.

"I... want to hear more."

Stiles turned to look at him then. "Are you sure? Cause I am getting really distinct 'lone wolf' vibes from you and I don't want to weird you out anymore. I mean, hell, I've been talking since before Manassas."

Derek reached out, slowly, tentatively. His hand landed on Stiles' shoulder. "You're the only person I really know," he said bluntly, but with the barest warmth. "We might have only met this morning, but..."

This part was harder to put into words.

"What do you know about real wolves? Normal ones?"

Stiles thought for a second. "I feel like this was something I decided to research one night hyped up on Adderal." He flashed Derek an apologetic grin. "They have a pack structure," he kept on, "a mated pair at the top, the alphas, then their beta wolves, their children, and one or two omegas, the lowest on the totem pole."

Stiles looked at his hand first, then at him. They reached an empty four-way intersection.

Turn right, the GPS reminded them.

"I wanted to stop all this because," and Derek took a deep breath, "because I realized in twelve years, I had become the werewolf equivalent of an omega. I have no pack. I have nothing besides the occasional order to hunt and kill. I make money, I sleep, I watch Community -"

Stiles snorted.

"It's good!" Derek defended.

"No, I'm aware," Stiles smiled. He finally turned right. "You just don't look like the type."

Derek rolled his eyes. He removed his hand from Stiles' shoulder. "I don't really live in this world anymore," he continued, faltering slightly. "But having something to protect, to care about, to have a pack again, it gives me purpose. You're my friend," he said, surprising himself. "And I want to protect you. You're pack." He turned back to the window. This much emotional display was so foreign to him, he might as well be in a foreign country.

Stiles didn't look at him, for which he was thankful for, but the small smile tugging at his lips was genuine. "You're not imprinting on me like a duck, are you? Just because I saved your life?"

Derek's eyes were already tired of rolling and they weren't even out of Virginia.

* * *

Stiles finished talking about his godson, barely two months from being born, just as they pulled into the shabby apartment complex. They both exited quickly and Derek shoved his hands into his pockets and looked around. The hedges were dying and the buildings were all in need of a coat of paint. The entrances had faded brass numbers on them. He wouldn't be sad to never come back. He stood still and inhaled deeply, closing his eyes and matching each scent he breathed in to his scent memory.

Stiles nudged Derek's foot with his own, almost begging for attention. "What are you doing?"

"Shush," Derek admonished with a growl. "I'm trying to concentrate."

Stiles looked around nervously, and asked, "Shouldn't we go inside?" When Derek didn't answer, he said louder, "What, are you smelling the air or something?"

"Yes. My senses are twenty times better than yours." Stiles made a face, half awed, half confused.

Stiles looked around again and asked quietly, "What do you smell? Are we safe?"

Derek opened his eyes and looked in Stiles' direction. "I smell an annoying med student. Other than that, I think we're safe."

"Did you just make a joke?" Stiles gaped like a fish and giggled. He clapped Derek on the back, disregarding the man's sudden tenseness. "You did! That – that is awesome, man.

"Nothing really gets you down, does it?" Derek was cautiously curious again. He pulled his key out and walked to the door marked four, looking back to Stiles the whole time. The younger man hadn't moved.

"I'm aware of the gravity of our situation," he said, shoving his hands into his pockets in a mirror image of Derek. "It's not like I don't realize we're in danger. Do you want me to stop?"

Derek was unaware of how much he didn't want Stiles to stop laughing until he felt just how vehemently his head was shaking no.

* * *

"Hello Spartan living."

Stiles peered through the doorway of Derek's apartment. The floors were bare of carpeting, and almost totally bare of furniture. The door opened into a small living room, which looked far more spacious than it really was since all it contained was one futon against the wall and an older TV in the center. On the left was the kitchen. Like-new pots and pans hung from an iron rack on the wall. A gas stove, an old, off white refrigerator, and painted cupboards completed the setup. To the right was a dark bedroom with a large, pristinely made bed in the center.

Derek immediately stepped off into his bedroom, pulling off the tight orange striped shirt as he went. A red duffel bag flung itself out of the dark. Stiles flinched melodramatically as it landed harmlessly three feet away. "Go into the kitchen and grab as much food as you can," he called. Suddenly there was a loud crashing and the sounds of a wall being ripped apart. Stiles threw himself into the bedroom, disregarding the red duffel bag, and watched Derek, claws extended, rip into the drywall and pull out a dirty backpack. He caught a glimpse of green paper rolled with rubber bands as Derek opened it briefly to check the contents.

"Whoa," he breathed. "Dude, you are never getting your security deposit back. But I guess it doesn't matter, does it?"

Derek huffed out a small chuckle. He glanced at Stiles and his eyes flashed the tiniest bit blue. "Didn't I tell you to get food?"

"Right." Stiles backed up and was nearly in the kitchen before he turned his back on Derek. He began opening cupboards at random, grabbing ramen, chips, a few apples he found in a bowl, and the entire case of bottled water he found next to the stove.

"Hey dude -"

A sudden knock on the door startled both of them. Derek's eyes flashed his way as he came out of the bedroom and Stiles understood; he crouched behind the counter and listened

"Hey neighbor." A young man, somewhere in his late teens or early twenties, stood at the door. He had an easygoing smile and curly brown hair. "I'm Isaac; my mom and I just moved in a few days ago."

"I had no idea." Derek crossed his arms and took a step forward, trying to intimidate the kid. "What do you want?"

Isaac smiled again and crossed his arms too. He clearly wasn't the easily frightened type. "My mom just wants to make some pancakes," he said. "And we don't have any milk. Could we borrow some?"

Stiles could almost feel the growls reverberating from Derek deep in his chest.

"I don't have any." Derek grabbed the door to close it. "Goodbye." He slammed it brusquely, nearly catching Isaac's face.

Stiles stood, swearing under his breath to release the tension. He gave Derek a reproachful look as he kept backing the duffel bag. "Not that I'm faulting you for being careful, but you didn't have to be so rude to the guy. Besides, you have milk. It's barely expired too."

Derek shot him a glare. "We don't have time for shit like that. We need -"

The door exploded inward.

Stiles thought it might be Isaac again, but he couldn't say for sure. For one, when the shattered door came flying into the apartment, he'd dropped to the ground again, covering his head. For another, when he looked again, the easygoing young man was gone. In his place was something feral with glowing gold eyes. His ears were pointed. A Cro-Magnon like brow had sprouted around his eyebrows and his nose was flattened and wided. Fangs glistened through his lips, which were twisted in a triumphant smile. His fingernails were claws, just like Derek's had been only a few minutes before.

Derek roared, his own fangs lengthening and his eyes bright blue. He shook his head and Stiles watched with mixed horror and awe as large splinters loosened themselves from his skin and it healed over. New pink scars began disappearing even as he watched.

"Alpha 1." The beast wearing Isaac's clothes was smug as he stood from his crouch. "I've been waiting a long time to meet you."

Derek roared again and took a swipe at him. Stiles groaned inwardly as Isaac sidestepped easily and cuffed Derek around the back of the head. Though it looked like barely more than a friendly love tap, Derek fell sideways to one knee. His head began to bleed freely.

"Don't you know me?" Isaac was almost embarrassingly proud of himself. He circled around again and kicked Derek's leg out from underneath him. When Derek fell to his back, he lunged forward and wrapped his hand around his throat, picking him up off the ground and smashing him down again. One of the windows in the living room cracked with the force. He did that a few times, harder each time, until Stiles was sure Derek's back was broken.

Derek rolled over and spat blood on the floor. Isaac, or Alpha 3, as Stiles had finally recognized, leaned over and grabbed him by the back of the neck. But Derek growled and spun, almost too fast to see, and suddenly Isaac was flying over the kitchen counter to land with a crash against the cabinets. Stiles scrambled up, skidding on the cheap linoleum, and ran behind Derek. Without thinking he put his hand on Derek's back and curled it into the wife beater. Whether it was an action meant to comfort Derek or him, he didn't know, but Derek glanced back at him with an expression not unlike gratitude.

Isaac stood up chuckling. He wiped his lip with the back of his hand and smiled. "You're not bad," he conceded, "but you're still an omega, and I'm still a beta. I outrank you." He stalked around the counter into the entryway and stopped a few feet in front of them. Derek took an involuntary step back and pushed Stiles into the wall, covering him with his whole body. "I'm going to kill you. And then," Isaac grinned wolfishly at Stiles, who stared back hard, "I'm going to kill your boy. Slowly. You won't be there to protect him."

"I'm here now." Derek shoved Isaac away and roared again. He grabbed Isaac's shirt and threw him again. This time he hit the futon. It collapsed under his momentum. Derek went after him, grabbing him by the shirt and tossing him against the wall, the plaster cracking. Isaac growled ferociously but Derek hit his face, nearly ripping off his ear.

Stiles backed into the bedroom to hide. His feet caught on the money-filled backpack and he stumbled, falling onto his ass. Wincing slightly, he looked at the backpack and saw something he recognized instantly: a SIG Sauer P226.

A loaded handgun.

Being a sheriff's kid had its advantages. He'd learned to shoot at six years old, much to the despair of his mother. He was a great shot.

Quickly, hearing Isaac's laughter and a whimper from Derek, he grabbed the gun and checked the clip. The bullets looked like handmade hollow points but it was definitely loaded. He turned the safety off and chambered a cartridge with a snap.

Looking deftly through the door, he watched Isaac pin Derek down and break his arm with a flick of his wrist. Derek howled and tried to get him again, but Isaac danced away. His back was to Stiles.

"Why are we even still fighting?" Isaac grinned and kicked Derek in the ribs. He rolled over and the whining got louder. "You're beneath me. Literally now. Submit, and I'll kill you quickly."

"Submit to this." Isaac didn't have time to turn around before Stiles shot him in the heart.

Derek whined, winded, on the ground. He felt the bones in his arm try to heal, but Isaac was right; he was a beta and Derek was barely an omega. He was outranked and his body couldn't keep up with the damage the higher-ranking wolf was inflicting on him. He was going to lose.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Stiles come out of the bedroom. He was clutching Derek's service pistol. Stiles kept it pointed down as he slowly approached Isaac.

Vaguely he heard Isaac taunt him. "Why are we even still fighting?" A sharp crack sounded and Derek felt his ribs break. "You're beneath me. Literally now. Submit, and I'll kill you quickly.

Stiles pointed the gun with the wolfsbane bullets at Isaac's chest. Derek felt a strange rush of affection as Stiles growled, "Submit to this."

The crack of the gun echoed in the apartment. Isaac was still smiling, but Stiles saw pain in his eyes. Black lines began to crawl in his veins of his neck and bare forearms. He fell to the floor next to Derek, whimpering and clawing at his own chest. The bullet wound was trying to heal, but the black ash left behind by the bullet seemed to prevent it.

Stiles immediately offered a hand to Derek and hauled him up. They loomed over Isaac.

Derek cocked his head at the younger wolf and said simply, in a low, angry voice, "No."

No, I won't submit to you.

No, you won't be killing Stiles.

He reached down and used his claws to slit Alpha 3's throat. The sickening, gurgling sound died quickly. Derek sighed and extended a hand to Stiles. Wordlessly he handed the older man the gun.

They rushed around grabbing all the supplies they needed. The dead body in the living room was studiously ignored. Derek slung the food and clothing stuffed into the red duffel bag over his shoulder and Stiles carried the lighter backpack. Derek locked the door as they left and they started hurrying away.

"Derek!" A high, reedy voice called after them. Stiles began to panic but Derek turned willingly to face a tiny, old woman holding a cane. Her hair was caught in a hairnet and Stiles thought she smelled like cats. She wobbled towards them, barely coming up to Derek's shoulder.

"What was all that crashing I just heard?"

"Nothing, Mrs. McCready," and to Stiles' astonishment Derek was smiling. He extended his arm and helped the old woman back to her door down the hall. "We were just watching a movie. You have a good day now."

"You're a good boy, Derek," she patted him absently on the cheek and closed her door.

The look Derek gave him allowed no comments. They got back into the Jeep and Stiles started it with a rumble.

As they pulled out of the parking lot, Derek murmured, "I carry her groceries sometimes."

Stiles snorted.

* * *

**AN part 2:** The plot will definitely get moving after this! Also expect a chapter that goes more into Derek's past. I hope I'm not updating too quickly for you guys!


	4. The Puppeteer

**AN: **I do not own Teen Wolf or the Bourne movies.

* * *

Two sociopaths sat across from each other in an office darkened by the grey, snow-laden clouds outside. They each had steaming mugs clutched in their hands.

The man behind the mahogany desk sipped his honeyed green tea. Though in the Army he had never risen above the rank of Captain, he had been recruited early on by the CIA for their – shall we say – more delicate operations. Now, he was one of the most powerful men in the United States. He was more powerful, in many ways, than the President, though most people would never learn his name. It was David Cross, but many called him the Puppeteer behind his back, because his hands controlled so many strings of fate. One twitch of the finger or quirk or the lips, and a bomb might explode in Libya, or an office building might collapse in India. Secretly, he liked his nickname.

The other man was in his forties, tall and muscular, with thick brown hair. His mug had black coffee in it. He was known as Alpha 2. Once, his name had been Peter Hale. No one called him that anymore, except for the Puppeteer.

"We need to discuss your nephew," Mr. Cross said mildly. "He has evaded us several times in less than three days. I understand he even murdered Alpha 3." He more than understood it. He had seen the body as it was brought in secret to the morgue hidden in a doctor's office outside of Langley, Virginia. The throat had been ripped away with terrible ferocity. The bullet wound, Alpha 3's undoing, looked so small in comparison. His body had morphed back into the cheerful young man he'd once been.

"Isaac was never a very powerful wolf," Peter remarked. Even though he had turned Isaac a few years before, he had been well aware of the wolf's limitations, and in retrospect, recognized he might not have been the best candidate for the bite. He drank his coffee. The bitterness was shocking. "I wouldn't put too much of the blame on him. Besides, the bullet would is obvious evidence of a second person in the apartment. That's who I think really killed him. There was a distinct... humanness in the air."

They both nodded solemnly into their cups.

"I tracked them all the way to Ohio," Peter continued. "That old Jeep was abandoned outside Culpeper and a new model Camry was abandoned about a hundred miles after that." He took another drink, mostly to muffle the admission: "I'm not sure what they're driving now. I lost their scent."

Mr. Cross pursed his lips. He set his cup down on the desk, careful to place it directly on the coaster. "I see. Has everyone from the medical office been accounted for, Peter?"

He was careful to use the man's name, especially since he already knew the answer. He had the information in a manila folder in his desk.

Peter shook his head, still not meeting the Puppeteer's eyes. "They thought they got everyone in the first sweep. After a few hours they realized they'd miscounted and an intern, a med student named Genim – Genim? – Stilinski had gotten away. Not... 100% sure what happened to him. We're still looking." Alpha 2 was an alpha wolf. He was the most powerful of his kind. Even he quailed under the steady gaze of the Puppeteer. Everyone did.

"I see," the Puppeteer said again. He sighed and reached into a desk drawer. Before Peter knew what had happened, an electroshock baton was pressed against his chest and delivering over 20,000 volts into him. Though far more than that was needed to truly incapacitate a werewolf, Peter fell out of his chair with a howl in pain. He growled as he stood, dusting invisible specks of dust off his leather jacket.

"I don't like to be disappointed, Peter. You know this. Even I can put together that Genim Stilinski and Alpha 1 are traveling together." David Cross was suddenly mild. The baton had disappeared and Mr. Cross was swallowing the last dregs of his tea. Peter growled again. He sat down gingerly and finished his coffee. They stared at each other for several minutes without speaking.

"How did they even find each other?"

The Puppeteer picked at his fingernails absentmindedly, ignoring the question. Regardless of how they found each other, security cameras from a gas station near Morgantown, West Virginia showed them together. Alpha 1 had been filling the tank of the soon-to-be-abandoned Camry and the Stilinski boy had a twinkie already out of the package crammed in his mouth. "How would you deal with them?" He didn't look at Peter as he said it.

Peter cracked his neck and said sullenly, "Derek needs an Alpha. I knew he would never submit to Isaac; he'd rather die. He always did have a stubborn streak, even as a boy."

"I said," the Puppeteer was dangerously quiet, "how would you deal with them?" The "you" was stressed infinitesimally.

"I would kill his pack. This kid, Derek will kill to protect him. An omega wolf craves pack as much as he craves food or water. Then I would make him submit. And then," Peter finished with flashing red eyes, "then I would kill him."

David Cross nodded once. "Your last remaining family. Are you sure you can handle that?"

Peter had had enough by then. He stood from his chair, eyes still bright red. "I sold him out once before."

"But you never actually lit the match, did you? That was Kate Argent's job, if I recall correctly." The Puppeteer stood as well. He was several inches shorter than his fellow sociopath, but again, the controlled power and coldness surrounding him made him the clear center of power no matter where he went.

"She did what she was supposed to," Peter replied. "And then she was taken care of. Simple."

The other man gave a short, barking laugh. "Seducing your nephew and handing your family over to the hunters was her job. Not to kill everyone."

"Everything worked out in our favor," Peter grumbled. "I think it was even more effective in the end, having him rescued after such a... trying ordeal. And everyone got what they wanted."

Before Peter could reach for the door, David handed him the manila envelope. "This is your next assignment. A bit of history for you. Oddly enough, Genim Stilinski is also from Beacon Hills."

"Do you think they'll go back there?"

The Puppeteer shook his head. "No yet. But after you're finishing... persuading his family, they'll come."

Peter put his hand on the doorknob.

"And Peter?"

He looked back without meeting Mr. Cross's eyes.

"Try not to kill Alpha 1. He is valuable to us."

Peter left.

The Puppeteer sank back into his chair. Pressing an intercom button, he said, "Frances?"

The intercom crackled. "Yes, Mr. Cross?"

"Would you mind terribly getting me another tea? Less honey this time."

"Of course, Mr. Cross. Is there anything else I can get for you?"

"Would you call my wife, let her know I might be late for supper this evening?"

"What about your son's game?"

He swore under his breath. "Give me an hour then. Hopefully I can have all this paperwork cleared up, but if not I might have to miss it."

"I'll check back in with you in an hour then."

She was a wonderful assistant, really.

* * *

Peter waited until he was far away in the Virginia forests before transforming into the hulking wolf he could become. He was still bristling with anger. A kill would settle his stomach and ease his mind. Then he would start out for Beacon Hills.

He slowly approached the isolated house. It was brightly lit inside and he could hear five distinct heartbeats. Three of them were young and fast. The horses in the barn reared up and screamed in their stalls, but it wasn't them he was after.

* * *

**AN part two:** Thanks to everyone who's liked the story so far! A special thanks goes to Lisa (soglideaway dot tumblr dot com). Check her out! And feel free to check out mine as well. Link's in my profile!


	5. Back Home

**AN: **I do not own Teen Wolf or the Bourne movies.

Anyone who catches the Supernatural reference in this chapter gets a cookie.

**WARNING!** The end of this chapter contains a few graphic descriptions of violence.

* * *

"Stiles, for the love of God, knock it off."

Derek was driving their fourth car, a sporty Chevy Cobalt, and Stiles was in the passenger seat. He was fiddling with the GPS, trying to convince Derek that taking the toll roads would be faster. Derek stoically kept refusing. He had noticed the security cameras in the gas station in West Virginia, and although he had told Stiles to cover his face as much as possible, it was no guarantee they hadn't been seen. Derek knew better than anyone just how far-reaching the arm of the government they were running from could stretch.

"Derek, come on. This is our second full day on the road and we're barely past Chicago." Stiles gestured out the window. Snow was falling lightly outside and the road was nearly deserted, even at noon. "Don't you want to get there, like, this century?"

Derek shot him a dirty look. "I don't care how long it takes to get there, as long as we get there safely." He swerved gracefully out of the way as an eighteen-wheeler rumbled onto the highway and restarted the cruise control.

"Come on!" Stiles threw his hands up into the air in frustration. "If they had really seen us in West Virginia, don't you think they'd have found us by now? Or turned their funky satellites onto us? Jeez." He fell back into the bucket seat with a huff. Privately he hoped they could keep this car for a while. It was the most comfortable one yet, and he was grudgingly including his worn out Jeep.

Rolling his eyes – seriously, it was exhausting how much he was rolling his eyes lately – Derek didn't reply. He saw the value in Stiles' argument: they hadn't encountered anyone in the least suspicious since they'd left Virginia. Maybe he was being overly cautious.

Stiles put the GPS back into the holster and had his hands around the book he'd picked up at the last gas station. It was a book of crosswords. "Want to play again?" He smiled broadly in Derek's direction, a pen already in his hand. He'd try Derek again about the tolls later, but for now they needed a distraction. Their tastes in music clashed horribly and Derek had nearly crashed yesterday after Stiles turned the volume way up on a catchy Top 40 song. Therefore, the radio stayed off.

"When's the next exit?"

Stiles checked the GPS. "We're supposed to stay on this road for another... eighty miles I think."

Derek grunted. "Okay. What's the theme?"

"It's called, 'The Damage is Done.' One across is three letters. 'A good name for a female plumber.'"

"Flo." A grin started to spread over Derek's face.

They finished the crossword in just under an hour. By the time the sun set, they'd finished another four.

* * *

The sun had been set for well over an hour by the time Derek deemed it appropriate to stop to get a bite to eat and catch some sleep. They were somewhere along the border of Minnesota by then.

"At this rate we're never going to make it to the west coast," Stiles grumbled. He was driving now and more than a little irritable from hunger. Another of Derek's rules was to avoid fast food chains and franchises. The divier a place looked, the better. Again, to avoid any sort of camera. Stiles was jonesing for some curly fries. "We barely moved any closer and we still drove over 500 miles."

"I'm not arguing with you about this again, Stiles," Derek barked. "Anyone who'll be following us will expect us to take the toll roads, or barring that, take the standard highway routes. Getting off and backtracking over our route and starting over protects us.

"Plus!" In a rare move, Derek indicated the car's interior with his hands. "We are driving a fucking stolen car. Staying off the highway is a good way to not be arrested for grand theft auto. I thought your dad was a cop. Seriously."

Stiles mumbled under his breath, "He's a sheriff."

"I think you like to hear yourself talk so much, even complaining sounds good." Derek crossed his arms and looked superior, even though another small smile was tugging on his lips. In the short time he'd been together, silence had started to grate on his ears. Stiles' ever-moving mouth had become a necessity.

"Fuck you, dude." Stiles took a hand off the wheel to slap playfully at Derek's face. He wasn't trying to make contact, but Derek took his hand anyway and pushed it gently away. Their fingers laced for just a moment and Stiles blushed.

A few minutes later, Derek cleared his throat and pointed in the distance. Stiles couldn't make out the sign from the road with only human eyes, but eventually they rolled past an advertisement for a bar and diner just off the main road. Stiles nodded and made the turn, arriving at the rustic bar just a minute later. There were several cars already parked outside, and a few motorcycles. Stiles remembered then it was a Friday night and normal people across the country were going out, having fun, getting drunk. He felt a pang remembering the celebratory dinner he'd had with Scott and Allison right before he left for Virginia. They'd told him they were going to have a baby. He'd cried nearly as much as Allison.

Derek exited the car before he did and cracked his neck with a sharp sound in the cold air. It was frigid outside, and Stiles, born and raised in northern California, found it unbearable almost immediately. His teeth chattered as he nodded to the door with his head. He shoved his hands deep into his pockets and fired a glare Derek's way. The werewolf seemed totally at ease in the cold, even as the snow started falling faster and a dusting of it settled in his dark hair. Stiles wondered if he ran hot.

He blushed again and opened the door.

The bar was crowded and noisy, but a pretty blonde waitress sat them at a small wooden booth with a smile. Derek made a face that might have been a smile and began looking through the beer menu.

"Haven't seen you boys here before." An older woman approached them wearing an apron and a neutral expression. Stiles recognized it immediately, having seen it on his father's face a thousand times. It was an evaluative sort of face, worn before interrogations or when encountering something very new. Her nametag said Susan.

"We're just passing through," Stiles replied, running his hand through his short hair. "Can I get a glass of water?"

Susan nodded, scratching it onto her pad. She turned her body to Derek, face still neutral.

"So, we'll both have the McGoldens, then." Stiles' mouth dropped as a perfect Minnesota accent escaped Derek's mouth. "And a burger for me and my friend, for sure. You got Jucy Lucys?"

"For sure!" The waitress's mouth had upticked into a smile. "You two come up from the Bear Lake? Do some ice fishin an' stuff, eh?"

"You betcha. Takin' a trip with my brother." Derek kicked him under the table much harder than was necessary and Stiles turned his grimace of pain into what he hoped was a passable smile.

"Oh, for wonderful!" Susan finished writing down their order. "Well, I'll be right back with you boys' things."

Stiles waited until she was out of earshot before kicking Derek back in the shins. Even though Derek growled at him, he hissed, "What the hell was that about?" He didn't even know what a Jucy Lucy was.

Derek's eyes flashed in the smoky darkness. "I'm trying to make us as inconspicuous as possible," he hissed back. "She's going to remember two guys traveling together, especially in a rural bar where everyone knows each other. We can't stand out, to anyone, at all." With a grunt Derek kicked back at Stiles' shins, making his eyes water.

Susan returned then with their two beers and a glass of water for Stiles.

"How do you know how to talk in a Minnesota accent?" Stiles asked after a few minutes of silence nursing his own beer.

Derek shrugged and took a swig of his beer. When he saw Stiles was still looking at him expectantly, he said over the top, "I don't know. I've traveled a lot, been a lot of places for... You pick things up." He suddenly leaned forward, startling Stiles backwards. "How come you've never asked me about it?"

"About what? Your accent faking ability? Never noticed it before." Stiles was genuinely confused. He took another drink.

"About what I did. What I've done. Doesn't that upset your sense of morality? We've been traveling together for three days and you've never asked about my past -" Their burgers arrived suddenly. Susan set them down with another smile and Stiles dug in. A hunk of cheddar cheese was buried within the burger patty and he nearly swooned with joy. As he ate, he surreptitiously watched Derek and thought about his desperate question.

He sounded desperate, at least. That pleading look, his hand too hesitant to reach forward. He wanted absolution, maybe. If nothing else, he wanted someone to tell him he wasn't a monster.

Stiles chewed, pensive. Feeling braver than usual, he reached forward and gently touched Derek's arm. Derek stopped moving, his burger halfway to his mouth and his eyes on Stiles' hand.

"I know you're not a monster," Stiles vocalized around the mass of meat in his mouth. He swallowed and said, "You might have done stuff in the past, but hey, so have I. Everyone's got one. A past, I mean."

"Did you ever kill an entire family? Or stalk a man for days in the woods, and finally rip his throat out? Did you enjoy it?" Derek seethed the last sentence and spat his food out into a napkin. He had an ugly look on his face, full of self-loathing, and made to rise, though where he was going to go, Stiles had no idea.

"Hey, sit down," Stiles pleaded. He gripped his jacket tighter, and Derek resisted for a moment before sitting. He wouldn't meet Stiles' eyes, but grabbed his beer and drank the rest in one long swallow.

"Okay, so I've never done anything quite like that," Stiles conceded. Derek's mouth tightened further. "Hey! But that doesn't mean I've never done anything awful. I was addicted to Adderal through most of high school and college. I did some pretty nasty shit, and I can't remember all of it. Once, I-I starting freaking out, seeing and hearing things that weren't there, and I ended up attacking this guy I was seeing. Scott had to take him to the hospital and I had to be admitted for something called amphetamine psychosis – it happens to people sometimes when they take amphetamines or-or cocaine," he clarified for Derek. "I was in the hospital for ten days detoxing. Then I was arrested for assault. The charges were dropped, but. Well."

Derek looked skeptical.

"Sure, I never murdered anyone." Stiles took another bite of his burger and crammed a french fry into his mouth. "But that doesn't mean I don't know what it's like to hurt someone in the worst way possible. Ryan loved me, and I put him in the hospital. That's pretty awful, all things considered."

More silence. Stiles finished his burger and starting attacking his fries.

"Are you afraid of me?"

Derek's question surprised him.

"Dude," Stiles said, exasperated. "If I were I wouldn't be traveling across the country with you. Come on."

"I can turn into a werewolf and tear people limb from limb," Derek hissed over his plate. "That doesn't scare you?"

"I think I got over that the second I decided to put you in my Jeep and drive you to a motel to give you a bath." Stiles stabbed a fry into his puddle of ketchup. He was starting to get angry with Derek, though he couldn't have said why. "And you're protecting me. You're my wolf in shining armor. I want to be here – well, I don't want to be running for my life, obviously, but I want to be with you, not just because you saved my life. You're my friend. I like you, Derek. Isn't that enough for you?"

* * *

For a second Derek could only stare at him. He said slowly, "If you and I had met under normal circumstances, and I still worked for the government, and we weren't in danger... you'd still want to be friends with me?"

"That's what I've been trying to tell you," Stiles scolded him with a shake of his head. "You said it yourself two days ago. I'm part of your pack now, right? Or something? Why would that change if we weren't in danger? It's not like random wolves team up to fight off predators and go their separate ways. Once you're pack, you're pack." And Stiles nodded affirmatively, with a supreme air of "My logic is undeniable; now shut up and eat your food."

Silence stretched between them, but for the first time, it wasn't awkward. Derek didn't know what to say. He wasn't sure what he had wanted to hear or what he had expected Stiles to say to him. Part of him, the more animalistic part, wanted reassurance from a pack member. It craved physical touch and kind words of care and safety. Another part, a part filled with self-hatred, wanted to push Stiles away so he would be safer. A more rational part knew this arrangement was best: he could protect Stiles from any threat.

He would protect him from anything.

Derek was afraid of just how much Stiles had wormed his way into him. He could almost feel him running through the cracks in him, soothing like water running through a parched, cracked desert. Three days, he reminded himself. I've known this kid for three days.

Werewolves wanted pack. Derek grew up in a huge family of born werewolves and for sixteen years had been surrounded, cuddled, piled on, and loved by dozens of people at every hour of every day. Then, after a moment of weakness, he'd had nothing, and he could feel himself slip slowly out of his natural beta state into the loneliness of an omega. It wasn't natural. After a decade of denying himself human contact, both as penance for his part in the death of his pack and as a necessity of his work, he couldn't deny it any longer.

Stiles was his pack. No matter what circumstances had thrown them together, no matter what was to come, he belonged in the space he'd already carved out inside Derek.

"Hey!" Stiles was trying to get his attention. Derek pulled himself out of his thoughts and blinked a couple time. "I'm going to the bathroom. Did you see it?"

Derek nodded roughly over his shoulder. He hadn't seen it, but he could smell it from where they were sitting. As he left, Stiles patted his shoulder. Derek unconsciously leaned into the touch.

He finished his burger and most of his fries waiting for Stiles to come back. After a few minutes though, he started to get worried. He twisted his head towards the bathroom and concentrated hard. Heartbeats thundered in his ears, but he was looking for one in particular: a young, fast, wild one. Derek concentrated harder, but he couldn't separate Stiles' heartbeat from anyone else's in the crowded bar. Growling, he stood from the table, threw down a few bills, and rushed into the bathroom.

Derek heard Stiles' humming and nervous tapping before he opened the door, but he went in anyway. He found him inside the single stall, not quite finished.

"Stiles. Hurry up." Derek grinned as Stiles swore under his breath.

"Don't do that Derek! Fuck." Stiles fumbled with his jeans and swore again.

Suddenly Derek caught snippets of a conversation just outside the door. As Stiles exited the stall, still doing his belt, Derek caught him and pushed him back in, closing the door just as two uniformed cops came into the bathroom. Derek pushed his body into Stiles', pressing him against the wall. He pressed his finger to his lips and Stiles nodded, his eyes wide.

As they entered, one said to the other, "Hey buddy, didja see that Chevy outside?"

"Ya sure. What about it?"

"Not too bright, driving something like that in the snow." Laughter erupted from both the officers.

"Where were they from?"

"Looked like Ohio, I think."

"That's odd, for sure. Wonder what they're doing out this way?"

Derek felt Stiles' heart beat faster in fear. He pressed closer, his face resting again his cheek, and whispered softly, "It'll be fine. Shhh."

Stiles nodded again. His hands curled into Derek's jacket, crushed almost painfully between their bodies. A few minutes later, the officers left, still discussing their stolen car. Even though they didn't know it was stolen, they were about to if they really ran the plates like they were discussing.

As soon as the door clicked, Derek and Stiles exhaled. Derek looked into Stiles' eyes and said quietly, "Let's get out of here." Stiles could only nod. He didn't even protest when Derek took his hand and led him furtively through the bar into the winter air. The snow was falling faster and their car had a decent covering on it. The police car was parked outside; it was empty though, so the officers must still be inside.

Quickly they brushed off the snow and got into the car. It started easily in the cold, and within seconds they had peeled off into the night.

* * *

They didn't say anything after that, not even while they were ditching the Cobalt in a strip mall parking lot and finding a beat up mini van to replace it. Derek broke the silence when they checked into a small hotel with a fading neon Vacancy sign.

"King or two queens?" The gruff old man asked.

Derek glared at him. "Two queens."

The man sniffed once. "Yeah, I bet." He handed over the keys.

"What'd you say?" Derek grabbed the keys with a growl.

"Nice car." He shrugged and wandered back to his stool and nude magazine.

Derek gave him a glare but walked away, taking the bags from the car before Stiles could grab them. They walked into the shabby room and Derek deposited the bags on the floor. He immediately started stripping and said to Stiles, "I'm going to take a shower."

Stiles grunted and laid down on the bed. He stared at the ceiling, counting the whorls in the plaster, bored. He missed his friends. He missed his dad. Derek was confusing him. The erection he'd grown being pinned against the wall by Derek confused him.

"You're not supposed to want to bone someone while you're running for your life," he muttered under his breath.

He sat up suddenly, remembering something. He rushed outside and returned after only a few seconds with his GPS and charger. It was a newer model and could pick up wi-fi. Stiles turned it on and waited, muttering under his breath to hurry up. It loaded finally and Stiles pulled up the menu, scanning the area for wi-fi.

"Success!" The motel was broadcasting a weak signal, but he was able to connect to it. Excitedly he pulled up his browser and went to his email account. After weeding through the usual spam, deleting an impressive 119 emails, he had four left unread. Two were from his father and the other two were from Scott. Stiles replied to his father first, cursing his lack of a phone or TV. Of course, even across the country, his father was keeping an eye on him and had seen something about a shooting on TV. The first email was short and to the point.

"Stiles, if you don't answer this email within 24 hours I'm going to fly out to Virginia and find you."

Stiles rushed to reply that he was fine and not to fly out, but his dad had sent it over 48 hours ago. Maybe he had already left and was in Virginia right now. He clicked on the next email – which was from that day – dreading what he would read, but all there was was a file. He downloaded it curiously and clicked. It was a video.

His father, bound to a chair, gagged, and head lolling in unconsciousness, filled nearly the entire frame of the video. Stiles gasped and scrambled into a sitting position as Alpha 2 came into focus, leaning over his father to adjust the focus on the camera.

"Hello, Mr. Stilinski." Peter Hale's smooth voice was distorted through the GPS's small speaker. "You never mentioned your father was the sheriff of Beacon Hills! My, my."

Stiles choked back angry tears as Peter continued. He grabbed his father's face in the video and Stiles could see his sharp claws. "I'm sure you know who I am, and what I want. This is mostly just a show of power. As of," and he looked at his watch, "noon on Friday, your father is still alive. If you and my nephew are not in Beacon Hills by noon on Wednesday, he will die."

The video ended there.

With shaking hands Stiles clicked on one of the emails from Scott. It too was empty but had a video file attached. He opened it and watched. It was twilight in the video, and Stiles recognized the background as Scott and Allison's small house on the outskirts of Beacon Hills. Peter was crouched outside one of their windows, holding a finger to his lips playfully.

"I haven't done anything to them yet, Mr. Stilinski," he whispered. "But your friend is about ready to pop, isn't she? I bet, if she were to die, her baby would survive by now outside of her."

Stiles didn't try to staunch the flow of tears down his cheeks.

"If you're not here by noon on Wednesday," Peter said with a growl, "I'm going to tear her apart. I'm going to make sure her son survives. Your friend Scott and your little nephew will bond, and he'll love that baby more than anything. Then I'm going to kill that child. I'm going to rip it from his hands while he watches and smash it to the ground."

Peter's eyes glowed red in the dimming light of the video and his smile was pure predator.

"And then, I will kill your friend Scott. And I will make you watch. Then you'll know it was all your fault."

The video ended there.

Stiles looked up to see Derek had come out of the shower. His hair was plastered down and he was holding a towel around his waist. He approached Stiles slowly, and Stiles couldn't tell if he was angry, or disappointed, or afraid.

"Look, man," he stammered, throwing the GPS onto the bed, "I'm sorry, I just wanted to check my email but he's got my dad and he's going to hurt Scott and Allison if we don't go back to my hometown right fucking now, I mean it -"

Derek was in front of him now.

"What do you mean," Derek growled, "Beacon Hills is your hometown?"

Stiles waved his arms wildly. "That is what you're concentrating on right now? Not the part where your uncle has kidnapped my dad or that he plans on torturing my best friends? It's just a town in California! Just one more crappy town in a long line of them!"

"No it isn't." Derek's eyes were turning blue. Stiles stepped back but his knees hit the bed. He fell hard on his elbows, Derek towering over him.

"It's my hometown too."

* * *

Stiles struggled to sit back up. "You're from Beacon Hills too? Is this a fucking joke?"

Derek shook his head. "I can't believe this." He surprised Stiles by sitting at the edge of the bed next to him, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Do you – do you think we've ever met before?" The question barely escaped Stiles' lips. Derek looked at him, eyes still unreadable and back to hazel grey. "You're not that much older than me. Maybe we went to school together."

"We didn't." Derek's tone brooked no argument. "But I met your dad a couple times. I should have realized!" His shout startled Stiles, whose nerves were as frayed as they had ever been. "I mean, how many Stilinskis are there?"

"There's more than you think," Stiles stammered. "So what are we going to do? We have to go back."

"I haven't been back in twelve years," Derek whispered. Now he looked afraid.

"Hey." Stiles put his hand on Derek's bare shoulder. He did run warm – almost feverish under Stiles' touch. "I'm sorry that you're scared. But this is my dad. He's – he's my whole fucking world. And what Peter said he'd do to Allison and their baby..." Stiles felt his voice crack. He rubbed the back of his hand vigorously across his face. "That is not going to happen."

Derek turned to face Stiles. He took a deep breath and said finally, "We'll go. We'll leave tomorrow morning. He said Wednesday at noon, right? That's four days to go about 2,000 miles. We can do that.

"But I have to tell you some things first."

"I'm a born werewolf. I didn't get a bite or anything; both my parents were werewolves and my older brother, older sister, and I were all born this way. My younger twin sisters weren't though. But we were happy. We all went to school, we did sports. I took guitar lessons. My mom was a nurse and my dad was a general contractor. We – we were normal people who just happened to be able to turn into huge wolves. And we never hurt anyone, ever.

"When I was sixteen, I met someone. She – Kate was older, she was a substitute music teacher at the high school, and she was interested in me. In me, this gangly, weird sophomore. She kissed me first, hiding in the music locker room. We'd meet in secret all over town, and my parents hated that I smelled like someone new and wouldn't tell them about her, but she was my secret. She was the one thing of my own I could keep to myself and no one could take her away from me. And I was so in love, I was almost sick with it.

"And then..."

Derek sighed and shook his head, looking like a dog shaking off flies. Stiles squeezed his shoulder in solidarity and turned his body more towards him.

"She burned my house down," he said baldly. "She came by, unannounced, wearing my – my clothing to disguise her scent and she threw Molotov cocktails inside through the windows. There were twelve people inside, including me and Peter – who, I guess, survived too.

"I got out. I crawled out on my hands and knees and ran into the forest. I spent the night in the leaves, healing. The next morning, I tried to go back, but I saw the house was totally destroyed and there were ambulances and police all over it. I got scared and ran away again. The next thing I knew, hunters had caught me.

"There are people out there who hunt werewolves; some do it for the thrill of the hunt, some for the bite, and some do it to protect people – let's face it, werewolves are dangerous if they're by themselves. These guys were doing it for sport. I was – I was chained in a basement for five days while they electrocuted me, forcing me to change. They shot me, just to watch it heal. After three days, I was begging them to kill me. I was just a sixteen year old boy.

"Then one night I heard screaming upstairs over the basement. I didn't know who or what it was, but I curled into the corner and covered my ears and just begged for it to go away. It stopped after a few hours, and then an older man came into the basement. He was wearing a suit and tie and I was naked but he sat down next to me with a bottle of water. I drank it and he helped me up.

"They put me in the back of a car and drove for hours. I slept through the whole thing. Eventually we ended up in a military base. They gave me clothes and put me in a white room. The man in the suit came back and started talking to me. Just talking. He asked me whether I liked playing the guitar and what movies I liked. Then he said he knew what I was. I wanted to run away, but he asked me if I wanted a new pack. A new family. A new... purpose. I said yes.

"Even though I was only sixteen, I was enrolled in basic training for the Army the very next day. I did... really well. I mean, I'm stronger and faster than a human and the brotherhood part... it was exactly what I needed. I graduated from basic and was sent to Africa. I served there for a few months until the man came back, still wearing that same suit. He pulled me off my watch and asked me if I liked the Army, and if I wouldn't like something new to do. It was getting a little boring so I said yes. I was put on the plane back to the States the next day, and was debriefed by the CIA. I had my first orders to kill someone that week, and... I've been doing that ever since.

"And I never went back to Beacon Hills. It holds too many memories of the awful thing that I did."

"What," Stiles interjected then, "loving someone?" He moved to kneel direct in front of Derek, forcing him to look into his eyes. "Loving her wasn't wrong, Derek. What she did was wrong. That's not your fault."

"Kate was working with the hunters," Derek murmured. "She wanted to drive us out of the house, into the hunters' trap. She wasn't supposed to kill everyone."

"Then that proves she was fucking crazy," Stiles said. He pushed gently on Derek's chest to get him to focus. "Going back to Beacon Hills isn't going to stop what happened, you know? It happened."

Derek cleared his throat. "Going back, and seeing the house... will make it real. Saying my family is dead is different from seeing the remains of the house and knowing they are never coming back, and that I played a part in that."

Stiles sighed and stood, pulling Derek up with him. Even though the towel slipped from Derek's waist, Stiles still reeled him in for a bone-crushing hug. Derek uncertainly wrapped his arms around Stiles' waist, resting his face into the crook of his neck.

"I remember you, Derek Hale." Stiles whispered in his ear. He rubbed his face once against Derek's stubbled cheek and held him tighter than ever.

Stiles released him after a while, a blush just tinting his cheeks.

"Now put some pants on, man. We need to make a plan of attack."

* * *

**AN part two: **How about that for moving the Sterek bits along? Let me know if you think it's too fast or too slow. If you're from Minnesota, and I butchered anything, I sincerely apologize. The crossword for this chapter can be found here: #/2012/10/19


	6. How To Steal A Car

**AN:** I do not own Teen Wolf or the Bourne movies.

* * *

Stiles took a shower. He turned the shower up as hot as it would go and hissed as the molten water hit his back and shoulders. Eventually, the tears stopped flowing from his eyes. He emerged a few minutes later to find Derek already sitting on his bed, thankfully wearing pajama pants. His face was still troubled and Stiles stubbornly ignored the redness around his eyes.

"Okay," Stiles breathed, "what's the plan?"

"It depends on why Peter is targeting you." Derek's voice was low. He sounded very tired.

Stiles shrugged depressingly. "Isn't it because I'm with you?"

Derek gave him a look. It might have been pain. "Yes, but what does he want? What's his agenda?"

Stiles shrugged again, his hands raised in confusion.

Derek sighed. "Is he just trying to lure us somewhere for a team of Navy SEALs to come capture us? Or does he want to do this himself, make me submit to him as an alpha wolf? I'm betting on the latter," he grumbled. He looked at Stiles, pain definitely etched on his face. And there was sadness, too. His hand reached forward and landed gently on Stiles' knee. "I'm sorry, Stiles. About everything." It was the third time he'd apologized that evening.

Stiles stood forcefully, his hands balled into fists. Derek's hand fell into the empty air. He was breathing hard like he'd just run a mile and Derek could hear his heartbeat beating more erratically than usual. Suddenly Stiles yelled, a sound of frustration and anger, and lashed out at the hotel wall. Derek was astonished to see he had actually made a sizable dent into it.

He stood and went to the younger man, who backed away. "If I had just died the other day," he trembled, "like I was supposed to, then they would have been safe."

Derek cocked his head. "You're angry at yourself for surviving?"

"I don't fucking know!" Stiles, though his knuckles were already bleeding, slammed into the wall again, making a hole. "I'm not – I mean, I -"

This time it was Derek who wrapped him in a hug. "I'm going to save them," he assured Stiles. "And then I'm going to destroy Peter. Your family will be safe."

Stiles went limp in his arms. His hurt hand hung at his side. "I guess I'm finally afraid," he said quietly into Derek's ear.

Derek led him into the bathroom and ran hot water over his hand. He looked faintly amused as Stiles winced in pain. "You know," he murmured, toweling it off, "if that's how you respond to real fear, I worry for anyone standing in your way."

"Well, what wouldn't you do for your family?"

"Anything." Derek looked directly into Stiles' eyes. Neither looked away for several seconds.

They trudged back into the bedroom, neither wanting to sleep but both knowing they needed to be refreshed for the drive tomorrow. Stiles pulled back his blankets first and crawled in. Derek stood awkwardly next to his own bed.

"Dude, what?" Stiles sat up.

"It's – nothing, don't worry about it." He began peeling back his blankets.

Stiles shook his head. "I know that face by now, man. That is your 'I still have things to talk about but due to my emotional constipation I'm not going to' face. Spit it out."

The glare fired his way made him smile. He watched Derek walk slowly over to his bed.

"Can I sleep with you?"

The question had Stiles gaping like a fish for a solid thirty seconds.

"Wh-what?"

"It's a pack thing," Derek mumbled. A blush crept up behind his beard. "Being close. I want to – comfort you." When Stiles still hadn't responded after another thirty seconds, Derek backed up slowly, his eyes downcast.

"Wh-whoa, dude, no, come here." Stiles scrambled to pull the blankets down further. Derek quickly got under the covers with him and turned off the bedside light. The room plunged into darkness, with only hints of moonlight peeking through the closed blinds.

They both laid together awkwardly on their backs, barely an inch apart but not touching. Stiles mustered up his courage and turned over onto his side, facing Derek. "Turn over," he commanded softly. Derek grunted and turned, his back facing Stiles' front. Stiles wrapped his arm over Derek's waist and gently entangled their legs. Already he could feel himself relaxing. The massive amounts of heat coming off Derek's naked back felt like they were worming him deep into his heart.

"I like to be the big spoon," Stiles whispered gently into the back of Derek's neck a couple of minutes later. After a few moments though, he realized Derek had already fallen asleep; his breathing was deep and even. Stiles shrugged, tightened his grip, and fell asleep too.

* * *

Stiles walks through the upstairs hallway in his dad's house. It's dark and eerily silent. He blinks a few times, unsure how he had gotten to California so suddenly. He isn't even sure if he had driven. And Derek is missing. That isn't right.

"Dad?" He calls out in the night. His voice reverberates mysteriously through the house.

All the photos are gone from the walls. That isn't right either. No matter how much time had passed, the sheriff would never take down the photos of his late wife.

Stiles gets more anxious by the second. He rushes down the stairs and turns into the living room.

His father is there, tied to a chair. Thick blood is dripping on the floor.

Stiles moans and runs to him, skidding slightly on the slicked wood. He kneels at his father's side and sees his isn't breathing, or moving. He's just bleeding. He's dead.

He stands, shaking, and spies another body, a woman in white, on the couch. It's Allison, and a huge bloody hole covers her flattened stomach.

Stiles wants to throw up, but his feet keep him walking towards the kitchen.

He walks in just as Peter Hale stabs Scott in the neck. His best friend sinks to the ground, terrified eyes trained on and pleading with Stiles. His newborn son cries weakly on the kitchen counter.

Peter's eyes glow red. He gestures widely around the blood-spattered kitchen. "Look at the mess you've made, Stiles," he grins in the dark. With his bright eyes gleaming, he looks insane. Stiles can't move.

"Look what you've done."

He woke up screaming.

* * *

Derek shot awake as Stiles starting yelling. They were a tangle of limbs and sweat-soaked sheets. He grabbed Stiles' wrists and called out, "Stiles! You're dreaming!"

Stiles choked back a sob and opened his eyes. He shuddered and threw his arms around the older man, surprising Derek with the contact. He clung to him, new tears pricking at his eyes.

"It'll be my fault if they die in five days," Stiles whispered.

"No," Derek growled low. He pressed a hand firmly against Stiles' back and echoed Stiles from earlier: "It will be Peter's. Because clearly he's fucking crazy."

Stiles hugged him harder. "You're going to kill him, aren't you?"

Derek could feel his teeth growing alongside his anger. Peter was his last remaining blood relative, one of his original pack. And yet, he was a danger to his brand new pack. No matter what their past was – and Derek could remember racing alongside Peter on the full moon, howling, eating turkey with him on Thanksgiving, being a family – he was a threat.

"Absolutely I will."

* * *

A few minutes before the alarm clock was set to wake them, Derek blinked, disoriented, in the dark. Something warm and solid was pressed against him. He hadn't felt this relaxed in years.

After his nightmare, Derek had pulled Stiles down with him back on the bed. He had laid on his back with Stiles curled on top of him. His face was still pressed into Derek's collarbone, his arm still clutched around his waist, and one of his lanky legs was tangled up with Derek's.

Derek glanced at the clock again. It was a quarter to seven. They had to get on the road soon, stop for coffee. They had to get moving. But the bed was so warm...

Stiles mumbled in his sleep and Derek felt traces of drool puddle on his skin. He chuckled to himself and shook Stiles as gently as possible.

"We have to get up now," he murmured. The younger man mumbled again, something about fish this time.

Derek rolled his eyes and got out of the bed. He turned the alarm clock off and went into the bathroom. As he started brushing his teeth, he realized Stiles' scent was clinging to his skin even harder than the man himself. He liked it. He eyed his deodorant suspiciously, irrationally angry at the product for wanting to disguise the scent.

He was finishing up and pulling a clean wifebeater on when he heard Stiles fall out of the bed with a yelp and a tangle of limbs. Derek chortled from his position in the bathroom doorway.

"You could have woken me up," Stiles rumbled. He shoved past Derek into the bathroom.

Derek leaned against the doorframe, turned away from Stiles to give him privacy. "I tried. You sleep like the d– like a log. And you said something about fish?"

It was a testament to their growing bond that Derek knew now that what Stiles needed was a safe topic to talk about.

"Yeah, well," Stiles pulled his pajama pants back up and went to wash his hands, "I didn't understand good seafood until I moved to the east coast. Like, California has got a lot of good things going for it, but have you ever had real Maryland crabs? Dude." His tone was reverent.

Derek shrugged and turned into the bathroom. "I lived in Maine for a couple months once. When you can get lobster for $4.99 a pound, nothing else is ever quite as good."

"I've never been to Maine," Stiles barely articulated through his toothpaste-filled mouth. "Did you like it?"

Derek thought for a moment. "It was quiet. Good food, nice people. The ocean is everywhere, it's a huge part of everyone's life. Yeah," he mused, "I guess I did like it."

They starting driving soon afterward. Derek decided to drive the minivan all the way to Des Moines, finally abandoning it in an airport parking lot.

"See?" They were in the long term parking section. Derek pointed the fine coating of dust on the interior of a car out to Stiles. "The owner of this car has been gone for a while. It's more likely they'll be back soon to notice it's gone. But this car," and he moved to the older burgundy LeSabre next to it, "is a lot cleaner. They probably just dropped it off a few days ago."

"So we should take this one?" Stiles tapped the car's back wheel with his foot.

"Yep. But not just because it's less conspicuous." Stiles still hadn't gotten over the efficiency with which Derek could break into a car. A quick shimmy of a flat piece of metal and the door clicked open. They slid quickly inside and threw their bags in the backseat. Derek reached beneath the dashboard and yanked on a few wires. A few sparks later and the car started with a rumble. "You can only do that with older cars. The wire thing," he explained as he back out of the parking lot. "The Camry and the Chevy we took -"

"You took." Stiles was teasing him.

"I took," Derek admitted with a smile, "were flukes. Most people aren't stupid enough to leave their keys in their cars, and we had to abandon them quickly. Older cars like this – this is a 97, maybe a 96 – can be hotwired."

They reached the guard, who didn't even look at them but checked the pass hanging from the rearview mirror and charged them $27. Derek handed over $30, got his change, and drove sedately out of the lot.

"We might be able to keep this car all the way to Colorado," he said to Stiles as they merged back onto the highway. Though the dark cloud of Beacon Hills was rapidly approaching from the west, they couldn't deny that driving through the flat midwest, flying by other cars and cornfields, and doing the crossword together was a real slice of heaven.

Stiles adamantly insisted on driving, so before they got to Omaha Derek relinquished the wheel. He tapped his fingers animatedly on the steering wheel and got every down clue on the next crossword in the book.

After the last crossword they took a break and found a small barbeque joint. It was noon and the place was full of families and people in the middle of holiday shopping. Derek was startled to remember that Christmas was less than two weeks away. He looked to Stiles while they stood in line to order and saw Stiles was having similar thoughts. His expression was closed, and when he picked up his pork drenched in thick, Kansas City style barbecue sauce, he sat down at their table without a word.

Derek watched him stab his french fries maliciously into his barbecue sauce and decided to speak up. "Christmas was always a huge deal at my house," he eventually said nonchalantly, his mouth half full of steak. Stiles looked up, surprised. "I mean, because of the pack. The family thing. We spent every waking moment together and sometimes that got irritating, but it was great on Christmas.

"On Christmas Eve," Derek smiled at the memory, "my mom always read 'Twas The Night Before Christmas.' It didn't matter what we were doing, when she pulled out that book we all sat down to listen to her. That last Christmas we had together, my older brother was home from college and I thought he'd be too cool to listen to the story too, but he sat down with the rest of us and pulled Megan and Molly – my little sisters – into his lap so they could see the book." He kept smiling, remembering the way his six year old sisters had tormented his brother Michael. They jumped up and down on him, and Molly had landed on a very sensitive spot – even for a werewolf, it had hurt.

Stiles furrowed his eyebrows. "Why are you telling me this?" He asked quietly.

"Because you looked sad." Derek could think of no other reason. No better reason. "I know what Christmas means. I miss it, too."

"I already bought everyone's presents," Stiles said after a few moments. "I bought a swingset for Scott and Allison – the baby won't be able to use it yet but it was so cute, I couldn't not buy it." He looked to Derek for affirmation, who nodded once. "And I got my dad an iPad, mostly because I want to watch him try to use it – it's hysterical how bad he is with technology.

"Is it," Stiles finished almost pleadingly, "is it wrong that all I want right now is to be sitting with them all under a Christmas tree, and see their faces when they get these things? Is that the right thing?"

Derek grasped Stiles' arm and gave it a brief squeeze. "You love them. That's the only right thing. And you have to stop worrying," he said, taking a huge bite of his steak. "We'll protect them. I won't let anything happen to them."

The wolfish grin and sudden blue brightness of his eyes did wonders to convince Stiles.

* * *

Derek was driving later that night, looking for another motel to crash in. Stiles was dozing off, his even breathing fogging up the window. He was glad he was asleep though; it gave him a moment to assess the bloom of affection sprouting in his heart. When he had thought of Stiles as cool water rushing through the cracks of his heart, he'd been wrong. Stiles was better than that: he was fertilizer, he was rain, he was the ivy growing around his heart, the roots tugging the cracks closed and sealing them forever.

He was surprised how quickly it had happened. Maybe it was their situation: they needed each other to survive, and that had jump started their bonding. Maybe he had just been so lonely for so long that he had imprinted, like a duck as Stiles had said once, on the first person to show him kindness. Maybe Stiles was meant for him.

Derek remembered Stiles. He had seen him before, at the hospital where his mother worked. He had come to drop off the car for her that evening. As he turned to leave, a young kid came down the hall pushing an emaciated woman in a wheelchair with an oxygen tank in the back. Even though he could smell her dying, she had a bright smile on her face as she talked to her son. He watched them wheel out the door and followed at a distance. They were parked right outside the entrance, looking at the stars.

"Stiles, what's that one there?" She pointed her thin hand up into the night.

"It's Ursa Minor, Mom." He sighed like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "That one right there is... Cygnus?"

"That's Perseus, dear." Her smile was watery. "Cygnus is over there."

Derek could hear them discussing the stars as he pulled away. When he asked his mother about the woman a week later, she told him sadly she had died.

He pulled into a gas station, still lost in thought, about a mile down the street from the tiny motel they were staying in. Stiles woke with a start as the car turned off and parked.

"Where are we?" He asked Derek blearily.

Derek cracked his neck. "We're still in Nebraska. You've only been asleep for about an hour. Go on, grab some stuff to eat and buy $30 in gas. I'll fill the tank. Remember -"

"I know, I know," Stiles rolled his eyes, "cover my face." He pulled his red hoodie up and walked inside, his hands deep into his pockets. Derek only waited a few minutes before the station beeped at him, signaling that he could start filling. He disconnected the gas hose and the stench of gasoline filled his nose. He could see Stiles through the windows of the convenience store, perusing the candy aisles and picking out his favorites. Derek could only pray he might pick out something that wasn't half sugar.

Another car pulled up. Derek noticed first that the hoodie he was wearing was similar to Stiles' and also bright red. As the gas hose clicked off, the $30 spent, he noticed something else. With the gas no longer flowing, he could smell the tang of gunpowder.

He had barely moved before the kid pulled his gun on the clerk in the store. Derek heard the screams for money and watched the clerk fumble with the cash register and then faint. He saw Stiles stand from his position behind a shelf and approach the manic thief. Stiles was already right there, fighting with him over the handgun.

Derek burst into the store, fangs and claws out, just as the gun went off in the thief's hands.

* * *

Stiles grabbed some Twinkies, a few candy bars, and, after a second's hesitation, grabbed a few Clif bars: the macadamia nut ones Derek liked so much. He checked out a couple magazines and the DVD rack.

"Wow, 'The Bourne Identity' for only $2.99? Score!" He nodded appreciatively and picked up the case, checking the back. He heard a car pull up the the station and a few moments later the bell above the door jingled. Stiles turned towards the counter to pay when the kid in the red hoodie pulled out his gun.

He dropped to the ground, all his things scattering over the floor. The kid demanded money while threatening the clerk with his pistol. He was trembling so hard the till wouldn't open. The thief raised his gun in the air and fired once, terrifying the clerk into a dead faint. Stiles looked around and stood, his hands raised in a defensive position.

"Hey!" The kid turned around. His eyes were wide and bloodshot; Stiles suspected he was high. He lunged forward, surprising the thief. One of his hands wrapped around the barrel and the other reached for his wrist. They struggled for a moment, the thief stronger than he first appeared, when Derek burst into the store with a frightening roar. The sound startled the kid, and his hand squeezed the trigger. It hit Stiles right above the shoulder.

* * *

Derek bellowed at the thief, picked him up bodily and threw him against the wall. He crashed into the potato chips with a dull thud. Tons of bags exploded and shattered chips covered the floor. Derek picked Stiles up in a fireman's carry, heady with the scent of blood and fear, and in the other hand hastily grabbed the Clif bars and Twinkies. He threw Stiles into car and ran back inside. The clerk was stirring feebly but Derek took no notice; he stole several blue first aid kits and some rubbing alcohol from the paltry home supplies aisle. Then he hurried back into the car and spun out of the parking lot, making it back to the motel in less than a minute. Stiles was pale in the backseat but his heartbeat was steady. Blood seeped out of the wound in his left shoulder.

Derek supported him back into the room and into the bathroom. He set him down on the floor next to the sink. Stiles groaned when Derek ripped off his hoodie and undershirt with his claws.

"Dude, that was my favorite sweatshirt," he murmured.

"I don't fucking care," Derek growled angrily. He threw the clothes into the bathtub and surveyed the wound. It was a fairly shallow graze, considering the gun had only been a .22, but it was in thick muscle tissue and was bleeding copiously, especially without any clothing around it to stop it. "God dammit Stiles!" Derek's hands were shaking as he grabbed every gauze pad from one of the first aid kits and pressed onto the wound. Stiles hissed and leaned his head against the wall.

Stiles opened one eye, wincing, and watched Derek's face. It was taut, totally drawn, and his mouth was as thin as he had ever seen it. Even his eyes were still tinged with blue. "It's going to be okay, Derek," he tried to soothe. "I'm going to be fine. It was just a stupid kid." He even raised his hand to Derek's face.

Derek pulled away with a snarl. "I'm not angry with the fucking kid, Stiles!" He pulled the gauze away and mercilessly poured rubbing alcohol into the graze. Stiles shouted in pain and nearly bit his tongue.

"Fuck you, asshole!" Stiles tried to stand but Derek pushed him back down. "Seriously, what the fuck is your problem?"

He wouldn't answer, just crouched back down and dabbed, with startling gentleness in contrast to the way he'd just been acting, at the graze. Blood and rubbing alcohol were seeping down Stiles' chest and Derek got every trace of it.

Stiles tried again to raise his hand to Derek's face. This time, the older man didn't pull away. Instead, he closed his eyes and leaned into Stiles' hand, his stubble rough against Stiles' fingers.

"You can't... put yourself into these situations," he whispered. His eyes were vulnerable as they turned back onto Stiles. "You can't... I can't lose you."

Stiles rolled his eyes and grinned. "Do you really think you could get rid of me that easily? Have you met me?"

"I'm serious." Derek took his hand from his face and laid it carefully on his lap. "You could have been killed tonight."

"I could have been killed on Wednesday morning when those military assholes invaded my work," Stiles retorted. "Or Wednesday afternoon when Alpha 3 came to your apartment. And if I recall correctly, it's only by the grace my my dad's gun safety classes that we got out of that situation as lightly as we did."

Derek grunted and picked up the bloody gauze. He threw it into the bathtub along with the ruined clothing. After he'd finished taping a square bandage over the wound, he settled himself against the wall with Stiles and threw his arm over the other man's shoulders. Stiles unhesitatingly leaned against him. They sat back for a while, until Stiles said, "You remember what you said yesterday?"

"About what?" It came out gruffer than he meant.

"About me being afraid." Stiles tested his shoulder, wincing. "I was really, really afraid in there."

Derek looked at him oddly, and let out a loud, barking laugh. He laughed until his sides rumbled and Stiles couldn't help laughing too. After a while he shuffled around a bit and pulled something out of his back pocket. Stiles couldn't contain a little squeal of delight when Derek pulled out The Bourne Identity. They ended up on Derek's bed in the dark, watching it. Stiles fell asleep first, but Derek stayed awake late into the night. Finally he placed a small, feather-light kiss on top of Stiles' head. "I was afraid too," he whispered into the dark.

* * *

Sheriff Stilinski wrote up the man who invaded his home as a home invasion, possibly gang related. He never came back, in any case. The only thing he could do was call Stiles twice a day, until his voicemail filled up, and email him at every opportunity. Stiles had gotten back to him once, telling him not to worry, but he didn't reply again.

Peter was never far away. He stayed in the burned remains of the Hale house deep in forest, waiting. Waiting for his prey to come to him.

Mr. Cross had texted him once. "Have you made contact yet?"

"Not yet," he responded. "I am 100% sure they are on their way back to Beacon Hills."

"Good. Remember not to kill him. Kill the Stilinski boy. Tie up all loose ends."

Peter would.


	7. Alpha 4

**AN**: I do not own Teen Wolf or the Bourne movies.

* * *

Peter Hale had chosen this Starbucks for two reasons. The first was it was about two hours away from Beacon Hills, and early in the morning – therefore highly unlikely that he and Sheriff Stilinski would run into each other. He didn't want to tempt fate and get himself arrested. That mess would be hard to cover up, even for the CIA.

The second, and most important reason, was that his last remaining beta could meet him more easily the closer he was to Seattle.

Vernon Boyd, or just Boyd as he preferred, was a tall and broad young man with skin the color of the iced mocha he was standing in line to order. Peter thought he was an excellent beta. Where Isaac had been flighty, nervous, and bordering on psychotic, Boyd was calm, cautious, and meticulous. He even did a few crossword puzzle answers while waiting at the counter, and when he said down with Peter he had no questions, only a mildly curious expression. The best thing about Boyd was that his respect for his alpha was absolute.

Actually, the best thing about Boyd was the complete ignorance the Puppeteer had of his existence. So, the respect was the second best thing.

Peter finished stirring the sugar into black coffee and took a sip. "I have a job for you."

Boyd nodded slowly. "What is it?" His voice was deep and solemn.

"A track and capture." Peter wiped his mouth with a napkin. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a scrap of fabric. It was a piece of a shirt, striped orange and blue. "You did well with that family in Idaho, if I recall correctly."

"They weren't particularly prepared." Boyd wasn't modest. He was pragmatic. No one would have ever thought that in the last year he'd been a werewolf, over twenty murders had been committed by him.

And they never would.

"These two will be." Peter then pulled out two photographs. The first looked like an old school photo. It was from Derek's sophomore year. He wasn't looking at the camera but concentrating hard on the old black guitar he was playing. The other had been stolen from the Stilinski home, and was of Stiles' college graduation. He gestured at both photos. "Alpha 1," he pointed at Derek's youthful face, "and Genim Stilinski."

Boyd took another drink of coffee and pulled the photos towards him for a closer look. "Which one am I going after?"

"Stilinski," Peter said immediately. "We're under... orders... not to kill Alpha 1." He cracked his neck, as though irritated by the Puppeteer's intrusion. In truth, he was.

"Where are they?"

Peter pulled out his cellphone this time. He pulled up Google maps and showed a small section of interstate 80 in Wyoming. "If they're still traveling the way I think they're traveling, they're going to be here somewhere around here tonight."

A miniscule frown appeared on Boyd's face. He wouldn't complain, but while it looked small on an iPhone screen, it was an enormous area of the country for one werewolf to cover. He remained silent and finished his coffee. "You're not coming with me, right?"

Peter scoffed and pocketed his phone. "I'm staying here and watching my own prey," he smiled, predatory.

Boyd stood, his car keys dangling from his pocket. "I might be able to find them by tonight, if I drive all day."

"That's my boy." Peter stood too. He clapped Boyd once on the shoulder and his eyes flashed red. "Remember, no matter what Alpha 1 does to you, don't kill him. And don't kill Stilinski until you get him here first." He led Boyd to the nondescript car outside. It was currently boxed in by the line for the drive thru, but Boyd could wait. He was patient like that.

"You want me to kill him, though." He was also more perceptive than Isaac had ever been.

Peter laughed suddenly. "Of course I do. Why my puppy of a nephew was designated Alpha 1 - he's not even an alpha, for God's sakes – I'll never know."

In a surprisingly bold move, Boyd remarked, "I always thought you viewed Mr. Cross as your alpha."

The line behind the cars moved forward, giving them an opening.

"If we weren't in a public place," Peter said calmly, "I would tear out your throat."

Boyd simply raised an eyebrow. He turned his head to the side, exposing a pulsing artery under his skin. Peter growled low in his chest for a moment.

"Find them." And Peter sauntered over to his own car and left in a hurry.

* * *

Boyd did find them that night. After driving at breakneck speed all day, at the Wyoming-Nevada border he stopped. He took out the torn shirt from his pocket and inhaled deeply. The scents were fading, but his olfactory senses were better than a bloodhound's. Even though there was a frost on the ground and clouds promising snow, he cranked down his window and began driving slower on the interstate, trying to catch the scent.

He found it late in the evening, sometime after ten. It led him off an exit before a town called Green River. Boyd drove up and down the empty streets for a while until he came to a motel with a glaring neon sign. The scent was much stronger here. A Buick LeSabre parked outside practically reeked of it.

He left his car around a bend in the road and crept up to the window of the motel room. Inside, he heard two erratic heartbeats and muffled groans.

"I think they're having sex." The text gleamed in the darkness before being sent to Peter.

"Interesting."

Boyd waited for a few minutes before another text glared on his phone screen. "What are you waiting for? Take Stilinski."

He broke the door down with a roar, and chaos ensued.


	8. I Walk The Line

**AN: **I do not own Teen Wolf or the Bourne movies. **Warning!** This chapter contains possible triggering anti-gay sentiments.

* * *

"Fuck, dude, I'm starving." Stiles winced as he moved his shoulder too hard to grip his stomach in melodramatic hunger pangs.

"You are making my eyes hurt from rolling them so much," Derek said. Even still, he rolled his eyes, genially exasperated. They were somewhere in the middle of nowhere in Wyoming. Night had fallen already and the mountains on either side of the highway felt confining and strange.

"There has to be a diner or something nearby," Stiles whined, but he was smiling. Derek knew he was just being childish for the sake of earning a laugh. "I'm recuperating from a gunshot wound! I need fuel!" He gripped his shoulder and sighed dramatically, earning the barest snort from Derek.

"Shut up, Stiles. I thought we covered that that was your own fault." But Stiles was right; they needed something to eat. A sign indicated on the right hand side there was some kind of bar coming up soon. Derek took the exit and drove down the road. Behind barbed wire fences, horses in thick padded blankets grazed sedately. Their breath fogged in the night like chimney smoke. Stiles looked out the window and saw a few white shapes laying on the ground with the horses.

"Derek, I think there are sheep in with the horses." He gestured at the shaggy creatures.

"So?"

"So it's interesting." Stiles' hands flew up in a dramatic shrug.

Derek slowed down imperceptibly and took a look. He turned away, immediately disinterested, and pointed his eyes back to the road. "They're dogs, not sheep. Probably protecting their flock."

"Horses aren't a flock," Stiles pointed out. "They're a herd."

"It doesn't matter." They reached an intersection and stopped. As Derek turned left, he looked at Stiles and said, "They've been taught the horses are part of their pack, flock, herd, whatever. They'll do anything for them, protect them from anything. Even stay up late in the night to watch them."

After a few moments Stiles cleared his throat awkwardly. "You, uh, know a lot about stuff like that."

There were bright lights on the left side of the road. It was the bar.

"I know what it's like," Derek said quietly. "I've been the wolf for a long time. Kind of nice to be the guard dog instead. At least you can come inside, come home."

Derek parked. Even with his inferior senses Stiles could hear laughter and music. He was looking at Derek though, mouth open slightly. Derek wouldn't look at him but stared at his hands on the steering wheel. The silence was thick with sudden tension.

"You know," Stiles swallowed thickly, needing to say it before he chickened out, "I'd take you home even if you were a wolf." He opened his door and hopped out before he could say something else equally stupid and ridiculous.

Derek followed him silently. They opened the door and were assaulted by heat, noise, and the smell of cheap beer. They settled themselves at the bar, sitting close together with their legs pressed thigh to knee.

The bartender was a grizzled older man with a lined faced permanently etched in a frown. He took one look at Stiles and grunted, "ID."

Stiles groaned and fished out his wallet, muttering to himself the entire time. He withdrew his driver's license and flashed it at the bartender. "See? I'm twenty-three."

The bartender was quick though, and had it out of Stiles' hand before he could blink. His eyebrows crinkled. "What kind of name is Genim? Where you from?"

Derek glanced at Stiles. He was fire engine red and his eyes were narrowed in anger. "Since you can't read," he hissed, taking his license back with a jerk, "it says Virginia. Not that it's any of your fucking business."

The bartender made an ugly face and turned to Derek. "He with you?" He thumbed over to Stiles, who could only sputter in rage. Derek nodded, no trance of emotion on his face.

"We're just passing through," Derek said quietly. "Can we get a couple of beers and burgers?" The bartender shook his head and turned to the kitchen, shouting their order to the cook in the back. He returned and slammed two beers on the counter without a word.

Stiles was almost vibrating in anger. He untwisted the top off his beer and gulped down a third of it before Derek had even opened his.

"I like it," Derek said mildly over the top of his own beer. Stiles eyed him suspiciously. "Your name, I mean." He didn't say it again, wasn't sure if he was allowed to.

Stiles burped and looked around. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "It was my grandfather's name," he murmured. "My mom's dad. I never met him, but Mom said... I was a lot like him."

"Why don't you use it?"

"Because it hurts." Stiles leaned back, a pained look on his face, and took another drink in the silence.

The bartender sauntered back down their way and looked at them appraisingly.

"You two queer?"

Stiles spit his mouthful of beer all over the glossy counter. A nearby couple, dressed in cowboy attire too worn to be cheesy and fake, looked at him in disgust and moved a few seats down. "Are you fucking kidding me, man?" Stiles wiped his mouth again and stood, clearly prepared to fight. The bartender settled one hand underneath the bar, gripping something hard. Several other people were looking around at the commotion.

"Well?" The bartender's face was hard and even uglier than before.

Stiles growled respectably for a human. "It's none of your business, asshole."

The man's grip tightened on whatever he had beneath the bar. "I got a right not to serve anyone I want, and I got one rule in this bar – no queers. So you and your pretty boyfriend can get on out of here right now." He sniffed and narrowed his eyes at Stiles, who only leaned forward. Derek smelled a stink like burning in the air – anger.

"Order up!" The cook, oblivious to the standoff in the bar, set two juicy looking burgers in the window.

Stiles growled again. "Just give us our food and we'll leave."

The man nodded towards the door. "I think you'd best be leaving now." When they didn't move, Derek heard the near silent click of a gun's hammer being cocked. He stood then and tried to pull Stiles behind him. The younger man wouldn't move an inch.

"We are just passing through." Derek gripped Stiles' jacket and forced him back down onto the stool with a squawk, nearly ripping the jacket in the process. He gazed icily at the older man. "We're not bothering anyone. We just want our food, and then we'll leave." Derek's eyes started taking on a surreal blue tinge and a growl began to build in his chest before the bartender snorted and walked away to serve other customers.

"You shouldn't have stopped me." Stiles pushed his burger away with an angry shove without taking a bite. It nearly clattered off the counter before Derek could reach out and stop it. "And of course he listens to you, fucking mountain man that you are. I'm bisexual, you asswipe!" He yelled down to the end of the bar. Now almost everyone was looking at them. The bartender almost came back, but one look at Derek's predatory face backed him off.

"Stiles." Derek leaned toward him then, unsure of how to comfort him. If he should.

"So what if I like guys?" Stiles hissed venomously. He winced again as he moved his shoulder but continued. "It's not like it matters. I'm just trying to survive with you. Who the hell cares? You don't, right?" Derek had never seen him so worried – not even when he'd been bleeding in the Jeep just a few days before.

"Of course I don't, Stiles," Derek hurriedly soothed him.

Stiles grunted and began attacking his burger.

* * *

They were still in the bar a half hour later, finishing up their stupidly delicious, grassfed beef burgers. Even Stiles, still smelling like burnt toast in his anger, finished the entire thing. The bartender kept eyeing them from the other end of the counter. Around nine, a small area in the back by the pool table was cleared away to reveal a stage with a microphone. An older man, not the bartender, approached the mic. It screeched out some feedback and the chatter in the bar died down.

"Hey y'all, so you know how we do on weekend nights. Anyone who wants to come up and perform is more than welcome to."

Immediately a young man and his girlfriend hurried up to the stage. They eagerly seated themselves around the microphone, the man's hands already set on the guitar. Their bubbly version of some recent country song put Derek's teeth on edge.

Stiles was still nursing his beer and seething.

Of course Derek didn't care if Stiles liked men. He only cared if Stiles liked men who weren't him.

He wasn't stupid. He remembered Stiles referencing a college boyfriend. He felt the way Stiles looked at him, thinking he was being covert. And he smelled the twang of arousal in the morning when they woke up together. It was delicious, and if he had less restraint he might have already shown Stiles just how much he wanted him. But they had more important things to thing about. Like Stiles' friends and family in danger.

Even still, in the midst of everything, was it wrong for Derek to only want to take Stiles into his arms and kiss every worry away, to get lost in each other for just a few hours until reality came back? Derek knew his chances of surviving until the end of next week were slim to none. Was it wrong to want to spend what little time he had left kissing the boy he loved?

He nearly dropped his bottle of beer. Stiles chortled as Derek cleaned up the mess with a few spare napkins. "Nice one, Derek. Good to know even with you... skillset, you can still be as clumsy as the rest of us."

Derek gave him a dirty look, but inside he was screaming. Love. Love, already? It couldn't be. Impossible.

Stiles wiped some barbecue sauce off his lips with his thumb and sucked on the digit. Derek let out a muffled grunt. There was definitely some lust in there too.

* * *

They sat through two more awful country covers before Derek felt like he was going to turn into his wolf and destroy the entire bar. He stood suddenly and Stiles followed him, thinking they were leaving.

"I'm going up there." He gestured with his head towards the stage just as "Before He Cheats" was finishing.

"O-okay." Stiles was shocked when Derek actually went up to the stage next and held the old guitar in an easy, familiar grip.

The bar quieted, not knowing what to expect from the newcomer. Derek flushed under the smoky lights, and Stiles groaned inwardly, downing the rest of his second beer in secondhand embarrassment. He buried his face in his hands, completely unable to watch. What Derek was thinking, he had no idea.

The first few chords floated gently from the guitar. A few people nodded appreciatively, although Stiles didn't recognize the song yet.

_I... keep a close watch on this heart of mine..._

Derek's voice was gravelly and soft, almost impossible to hear over the hubbub of the bar and the strumming of the guitar.

_I keep my eyes open all the time_

_I keep my ends out for the tie that binds_

_Because you're mine, I walk the line_

* * *

Stiles raised his beer to his lips, even though it was empty. His eyes had widened in surprise at the werewolf assassin, sitting in a hole-in-the-wall bar in Wyoming.

Singing.

It was one of the most beautiful things Stiles had ever seen, and he couldn't have said why. Well, he could. But he could never say it to Derek. Like it or not, Stiles was down the rabbit hole, totally out of commission, completely head over heels for the guy. It was stupid, it was irrational, but it was nonetheless.

_Yes, I'll admit I'm a fool for you_

_Because you're mine, I walk the line_

* * *

Derek felt extremely self conscious in front of the microphone. He hadn't been planning on playing, had wanted to leave as soon as they were done eating, but for some reason he just needed to play one song.

He thought Stiles would appreciate it. Maybe he'd hear what Derek wanted to whisper to him in the middle of the night, but couldn't say.

As his hand curled around the neck it came rushing back to him: the lessons, the serenading him mother while she laughed and made dinner, bothering Laura while she was studying.

Stiles would like it.

He sat gingerly on the stool and perched the guitar under his arms, quickly cataloging the songs still in his memory. The first chords came out unconsciously, and someone whistled their appreciation.

_Because you're mine, I walk the line  
_  
_You've got a way to keep me on your side_  
_  
You give me cause for love that I can't hide_

* * *

Stiles leaned forward, his mouth stuck open in surprise and... affection? Arousal? There was definitely that. He shifted awkwardly on the stool.

The bartender stood on the other side of the bar, wiping a few glasses. "Your boyfriend's good," he grunted.

"Yeah," Stiles gasped. "Yeah, he definitely is."

* * *

Derek finished with a throb of guitar strings. There were cheers and hoots throughout the bar. He wordlessly set the guitar back in its stand, only to have it snatched up by another young man, who, taking his cue from Derek, starting butchering "A Boy Named Sue."

"Come on," he gestured to Stiles. They left before "A Boy Named Sue" was on the second verse.

Derek was nervous as they drove back onto the highway to find a hotel. Stiles was being quiet and pensive. "Did you like it?" He ended up blurting out tactlessly.

Stiles' face split into a grin. "Yeah. I did."

They checked into a motel and unloaded their bags. Stiles grabbed Derek's and raided the inside for toothpaste. "Hey," he looked up at Derek, "what happened to your deodorant?"

Derek's deodorant was back in Nebraska in the trash. He'd gotten angry after putting it on and being unable to smell Stiles on his skin.

He shrugged.

Stiles looked at him oddly, grabbed the toothpaste, and went into the bathroom. Almost immediately, he reopened the door with a fiery look on his face.

"Did you sing that for me?" Stiles stood a foot away from Derek.

Derek took a step back, raising his hands defensively. "I just wanted to sing, I – I guess I thought -" But he couldn't finished. He ran his hand through his hair in frustration.

"And I know what happened to your deodorant," Stiles continued, stepping forward. "You threw it away in Nebraska. I remember; you put it on after we woke up, then you had this awful expression and walked around the motel for ten minutes all awkward, and then right before we left you went to the bathroom again and I'm positive you weren't wearing it anymore. You took it off because it didn't smell right, didn't you?"

Too perceptive for his own damn good. Derek dropped his hands to his sides.

"I like it too, you know," Stiles said quietly. He motioned at his own clothes, and the leather jacket he was wearing that was just a bit too broad for him – Derek had lent it to him as an apology for his red sweatshirt. "I like waking up and going to sleep with you. And I like wearing your clothes and sitting for hours in a car with you and being pressed up against a wall – I feel like fucking Keanu Reeves right now but I don't care."

"What?" Derek narrowed his eyes. Out of all the things he expected to come out of Stiles' mouth, that wasn't one of them.

Stiles ran his hand through his slowly lengthening hair. "The movie Speed? Remember? He and Sandra Bullock totally want to bone each other but they keep saying, 'Relationships borne out of extreme circumstances never work?' But I bet it would have if Jason Patric hadn't gotten in the way in the second movie." He smiled briefly. "Luckily for us, there's no Jason Patric."

"We are being hunted by a couple of psychopaths," Derek reminded him with a growl.

"No, no! Those are the extreme circumstances, not the replacement actor in this situation."

Neither of them moved. Stiles was solid, barely inches away, and wouldn't look away from Derek's eyes.

"What do you want, Stiles?" Derek meant it to come out as a growl, but it ended up much higher. He felt as though all the breath had been stolen from his lungs.

"Just tell me the truth." Stiles had an eager expression on his face: neither happy nor sad, but determined. "You think about me like that. You trust me. I mean," he gestured at himself again, "this is hard not to love, I know -"

"You have no idea."

Stiles stood motionless then, his hands still waving in circles around his own body. He looked flabbergasted that Derek had verbally admitted anything at all.

"I -"

He put his hand flat on Stiles' chest. "Do you understand what you mean to me?"

Stiles couldn't look up from the hand pressed firmly against his heart. He swallowed and said, "Well, I'm pretty sure you sang the manliest love song ever to me. Seriously, my heart is still twitterpated."

Derek could feel it race underneath his fingertips. "It's not just that, Stiles," he said softly. "I'm – I'm probably going to die, going back to Beacon Hills."

Stiles started to protest but Derek continued, pushing him gently towards the wall. "They're still after you and me. And you know I'm going to do everything in my power to make them stay away from you and your family, but after that I – I just don't know."

He took a deep breath and looked into Stiles' eyes. He could see the fear there, but he suddenly didn't think it was just for himself. "You're the only good thing that's happened to me in twelve years," he said baldly. "It's selfish, but I just want to be with you. For as long as I can."

Stiles' back was totally flush against the wall. "You're not dying on Wednesday," Stiles said firmly. He lifted his hands to twist them into Derek's t-shirt. "And I'm not leaving you, no matter what."

Derek almost believed him.

"Stiles, if we both survive -"

A cool pair of hands grabbed his face and forced his eyes upwards. Derek was barely an inch away from Stiles' face. "When we both survive," he repeated slowly, making sure every word dropped deeply into Derek's mind, "I will still be with you. You have to stop doubting that I love you, man."

Derek reared his head up and pulled away. Stiles let him, amazed he'd let those words, of all words, escape his mouth. They stood a foot apart, breathing hard.

"You mean that?" He searched into Stiles' eyes, almost pleading.

Stiles laughed nervously. "I try to mean everything I say."

Derek approached him slowly. He pressed against him, crowded together from groin to chest, and Derek leaned into his neck, his nose barely touching Stiles' skin. "Did you mean what you said earlier, too?" The words vibrated into Stiles' skin.

"About what?" Stiles sounded breathless and his heart skipped under his skin.

"About... the dogs. You said you'd take me home, even if I were a wolf."

"Oh." Slowly, Stiles lifted his hands and pulled Derek's hair gently, pressing him closer. Derek placed a single opened mouthed kiss on his neck.. "I mean – I c-can't have dogs of any genus in my apartment, but -"

"Stiles." Derek's mouth rested just above Stiles' pulse.

"Yes, yeah, I meant it." Stiles lifted his head just enough to let Derek's face rest more comfortably. "I mean, I meant that no matter – no matter what happens, or what you do, or how our fucked up journey ends, I'm going to want you in my life. Wolf or guard dog or whatever. But preferably just as Derek."

Derek smiled against his neck and looked up. He brought his hand up against Stiles' cheek, just brushing his thumb over his cheek. As he leaned in, he whispered, "I'm glad I met you, Stiles."

Their lips met delicately, the barest touch of skin on skin.

Stiles whined first, clutching desperately at Derek's shoulders. He wrapped his arms around Derek's neck and pulled the older man closer to him, dragging him to suck on his neck again. Derek smiled into Stiles' neck and pressed him harder into the wall. One of his hands crept underneath the leather jacket and pulled it roughly off. The feeling of one less barrier of clothing between them was almost magical.

Stiles' hands weren't still for long. They slid over Derek's chest, pausing to feel along one row of muscle, then the next. When he reached the bottom of his shirt, he wrenched his lips from Derek's and concentrated on removing it.

Derek chuckled and lifted his t-shirt over his head. He tossed it somewhere onto the floor and reached again for Stiles' face. His eyes were dark and intense. Stiles looked marginally disappointed when Derek paused a millimeter away.

"I just need to know..."  
"What?"

"Do you really feel like Keanu Reeves?" Derek's voice was more than a little desperate. "You don't – I'm not using you to feel better about this situation or anything -"

"Derek." Stiles' voice was firm. "I think the words 'I love you,' which I don't really throw around lightly or anything, sort of cover that." When Derek began shaking his head and backing away, clearly not believing him, he grabbed his face and recklessly attached his lips to Derek's, biting down hard on the older man's bottom lip and crashed them back against the wall.

"If it takes me a thousand years to prove it to you," Stiles growled, "I will do it. I will get it through your thick werewolf brain one way or the other." He reached forward for another forceful kiss, teasing Derek's lips open with his tongue and plunging in. Derek whined this time, pliant and relenting under Stiles' mouth. He allowed himself to be spun around with his back against the wall and a knee between his legs, grinding firmly against him.

Derek gasped when Stiles moved away from his lips to bite along his jaw and leave bruising marks against his neck. "A thousand years, huh?" He managed to choke out.

Stiles pressed his knee even harder between Derek's legs, feeling the straining hardness there. "You'll never get rid of me," Stiles whispered wolfishly into his ear. He bit down on Derek's earlobe and quickly soothed it with his tongue.

He felt the air whoosh from his lungs as Derek pushed him away. He fell, arms cartwheeling, onto the mattress. Before he could say anything, Derek was on top of him, swallowing his squawk of indignation. "I never want to get rid of you," Derek growled against his lips. Stiles could feel the pricks of his fangs against his lips.

Somehow, even with Derek crushing him into the mattress, Stiles' t-shirt came off and disappeared somewhere in the motel room. His mouth never strayed far from Stiles'. He rubbed his face against his neck, delighted at the intermingling of their scents.

Derek sat back on his elbows, taking in the sight of the impatient man beneath him. He was surprised when a pair of ankles wrapped around his hips to pull him down. Stiles used the momentum to flip them over, surprising him again.

"Did you let me do that?" Stiles asked from his position dropping hot kisses over Derek's chest.

"Maybe," Derek smiled. A groan eerased it as Stiles took one of his nipples in his mouth and lavished it with his tongue. Stiles smirked and kissed his way back up to Derek's neck. He bit down, hard, right on Derek's pulse point. The answering jerk of Derek's hips made him smile wider.

Derek's hands migrated to Stiles' hips, pushing and pulling him into a slow, deep grind. Stiles could feel himself fast approaching orgasm and he shuddered, tugging Derek's hands off of him and pinning them above his head.

"Hi," he breathed. He kissed Derek's cheek chastely and felt him smile. He nuzzled against his beard, taking a moment to breath deeply that musky maleness that was so very Derek.

Of course, that was when the door exploded.

* * *

A hulking werewolf stood in the doorway, eyes gleaming even more brightly surrounded by his black skin and fur. Stiles yelped as Derek threw him immediately onto the floor, already morphing into his half wolf shape. The intruder shook his head and roared again, stepping farther into the motel room and making straight for Stiles.

Derek pounced, grabbing the other by the throat and slamming him onto the ground. But he only grinned and kicked into Derek's solar plexus, winding him. He landed painfully on the floor, coughing.

"Derek, look out!" Stiles shrieked from beside the bed.

Their attacker grinned as he reached his arm around Derek's throat. He twisted brutally and a sharp snap shot through the room. Derek dropped like a stone onto the other bed, his eyes wide and unseeing.

Stiles felt like he had been punched in the gut. He hardly noticed the intruder grabbing him around the waist or shoving a Chloroformed cloth into his face. All he wanted was to reach Derek's lifeless body.

"Wake up! Derek, wake the fuck up!"

He continued screaming even as he passed out and was loaded into the trunk of a car.

* * *

"Stiles!"

It was a few hours later, and the room was unbearably cold. The door had been left open. Derek looked blindly around, disoriented, though he already knew Stiles was long gone. He stumbled outside to find it had started snowing. He approached their car for another unpleasant surprise: all 4 tires had been slashed open. It was impossible to drive. A note with untidy, somewhat familiar scrawl was taped to the dashboard. Derek wrenched open the door and snatched it up.

"Dearest nephew. If you are still alive, come to Beacon Hills before tomorrow night and we won't kill your little bitch. Love, Uncle Peter."

Derek slowly crumpled the note up. Not caring if anyone could see, he shucked off his jeans and transformed into his wolf form. He started running back to the highway as quickly as he could, howling ferociously as he went.

The regular wolves in the area heard the howls, tucked tail, and ran back to their dens. They had never heard such anger and loneliness expressed in their language.


	9. Sunrise

**AN: **I do not own Teen Wolf or the Bourne movies. **Warning!** This chapter contains a brief reference to domestic abuse.

* * *

Stiles awoke to vicious nausea and the painful sensation of his arms tied behind his back. He took several deep breaths, trying to stave off vomiting. He blinked a few times, but there was no light at all in the hard, cramped space he was crammed into. A few choice words from his father floated behind his eyes.

"Here's what you want to do if you're stuck in the trunk of a car. You want to feel for the brake light. You feel it, it's right over here. You would kick it out."

He felt around with his feet. Eventually he toed something with his sneakers and tried to kick out, but another debilitating wave of nausea hit him like a truck. Stiles rolled onto his stomach, breathing in the heady fumes of exhaust through the thin fabric in the trunk. "Fuck," he whispered painfully. The bright stars flashing beneath his closed eyelids weren't helping with the nausea either.

Stiles was aware that he was slowing down. He was tossed backwards and landed painfully on his face as the car stopped abruptly. The world opened above him and he blinked again. Falling snow and moonlight haloed Derek's murderer.

"Come on," he grunted. He grabbed Stiles around the waist and pulled him unceremoniously from the trunk of the car. Stiles couldn't stop himself from vomiting then into the frosted grass as he was supported from an iron grip on the back of his neck. He heaved until his throat burned and sagged to his knees. Tears, unrelated to his retching, were leaking down his cheeks.

Stiles was lifted again and thrown into the backseat instead of the trunk. He bit back a scream as he landed on his injured shoulder. The bandage was old, he thought dully. He should have asked Derek to change it when he had a chance. The thought made him bite his tongue. Instead of crying out again, he pressed his face into the seat fabric and whined quietly.

The other man grunted again. "You need me to look at that?" Stiles was sure he was referencing his shoulder.

"Fuck you," Stiles whispered. "Just kill me already, okay?" He was pulled into a sitting position instead. The other man had a blue first aid kit opened and bandages ready. He was surprisingly gentle, barely pulling on Stiles' skin as he took the old bandage off. Stiles couldn't look at him, only growled low in his chest the way Derek would when he was unhappy.

"You're not a werewolf yet, man." A cool new bandage and antiseptic cream were pressed to his shoulder. "But nice try."

Stiles glared at him. Without warning he lunged forward and cracked his head against the other's face. He could feel the blood from the hopefully broken nose staining his forehead, but he didn't care. Stiles stumbled past the werewolf, who was roaring in pain, and fell to his knees on the asphalt. He struggled to his feet again and began to ran as fast as he could. He could hear his father in his head again, telling him to run in a zigzag to confuse his pursuers.

Even without the zigzags thrown in, Stiles was tired, hurt, cold, and sick from the chloroform. He could barely move more than a quick stumble. Soon he was caught around the middle again and swung around. Stiles felt something in his wrist twinge painfully as he was thrown onto his back on the frozen ground. "Stupid, man," grunted the werewolf as Stiles bit out a shout. Though his face had blood on it, his nose looked straight again. He threw Stiles back into the car, face down, and grabbed his broken wrist. With quick, efficient movements, he had it wrapped in another bandage. Stiles found himself sitting up this time in the backseat.

The car started up again and they continued on.

Stiles cleared his throat and swallowed the awful taste in his mouth. It was blood. He asked through it, "Who are you?" But he had an inkling already.

"Boyd," he said after a few minutes. "I work for Peter."

"Part of his pack, you mean," Stiles bit out. He leaned forward, wanting to lash out again, but the werewolf had wisely put his seatbelt on. The bastard.

"It's easier if you think of him as a boss you don't ever want to disappoint."

Stiles growled again. "Then you work for the CIA too?"

Boyd surprised him with a barking laugh. "No," he said quietly. "I work for Peter. Not the government."

Confusion and curiosity clouded Stiles' anger briefly. "Aren't we - I... being targeted by the government?"

Boyd nodded once. "You are. And Peter works for them. They sign his paychecks, anyway. But Peter is too invested in gaining power to ever give up authority to anyone else. Even the most powerful branch of the most powerful government in the world."

"He's a psychopath," Stiles spit out venomously.

"I'm not disagreeing with you," Boyd conceded with murmur.

Stiles gaped at him, anger threatening to overflow in his veins. "And you're working with that son of a bitch? Are you for real, dude?"

Boyd glanced back at him. "He gave me the greatest gift anyone ever gave me."

"Yay for super strength and some serious nip/tuck fodder. You should really get that face looked at. I mean, with the wrinkles and the hair." Stiles' voice was thick with sarcasm.

"No. He gave me a family."

Stiles leaned forward, confused again.

"That's what pack is," Boyd continued. "He's pretty crazy, sure. And he's dangerous. He's probably broken every bone in my body -"

"You know," Stiles interrupted, still sarcastic, "they have shelters for that kind of thing. And secret underground railroad things in the middle of the night and stuff."

Boyd growled and his eyes flashed yellow. "You don't understand. You've always had someone to love you and protect you."

"So?" Stiles leaned forward again, though his shoulder and wrist protested. "Your new daddy is going to kill my father and best friend, and you," his voice broke, "you murdered Derek."

The car filled with silence. Stiles began to ponder the aching in his chest. Is this what heartbreak is? He remembered the look on Ryan's face the only time he'd visited in the hospital, all those years ago. He remembered the way his own face had crumpled after learning Lydia had died in that car crash. He and Allison and Scott had held each other for over an hour, sobbing their hearts out. Those feelings didn't quite compare to what he felt in his gut now. It felt as though at some point his heart had shattered, and before it could even reach the pit of his stomach, it had frozen over and crystallized into something more diamond than human. As they drove on through the dark, he felt only a dull burning, a double edged drive: protect my family. Avenge Derek. He wanted nothing more.

"Derek might not be dead, you know."

Stiles blinked once. Twice. "What?"

Boyd shrugged. "He might still be alive. Maybe. I mean, he could heal from that."

"Don't fucking do that to me!" Stiles yelled and strained against the seatbelt. The child lock activated and he was reeled back into the seat.

Boyd could only shrug again. "Peter told me not to kill him, but if he died in the course of fighting, that was alright. My only objective was to get you and bring you back to Beacon Hills. If Derek is alive, he'll follow us."

Stiles leaned his head back against the headrest and blinked tears out of his eyes. He couldn't think about Derek still being alive. Either he was or he wasn't, and his last images of Derek were of a pale, staring body on a still-warm bed. To keep from crying, he looked out the windows. The scenery wasn't much different from what he and Derek had seen before they got to the bar. There were more barbed wire fences with cattle and horses, and low mountains just visible on the horizon. "Where are we?" He asked quietly.

Boyd checked his own GPS. Stiles was surprised to see they were still in Wyoming – barely seventy miles from the motel.

Where Derek had to be dead.

He swallowed that down.

"You were only unconscious for about half an hour, maybe a little more." Boyd remarked. "Chloroform doesn't knock people out for hours. That's just a movie myth."

"I know that, asshole," Stiles barked. "I'm a med student."

"Good for you, man." He even sounded proud of him. Stiles wanted to break his nose again. And again. And again. "Where do you go to school?"

Stiles grumbled, unwilling to answer, to bond with his kidnapper. "George Washington University."

"Nice." Boyd nodded appreciatively. "I go to the University of Washington. Mechanical engineering."

"Are you fucking kidding me? I've been kidnapped by an engineer?"

Boyd chuckled. "Don't worry. No one's going to hold that against you. Least of all me."

"Why?"

"You're human." Boyd checked the GPS again. "We still have about fourteen hours of driving. You should sleep."

Stiles fell silent for over a half hour. His mind raced ahead, however, plotting and planning. After the silence became unbearable, he asked Boyd, "What does Peter want with me?"

Boyd sighed. He glanced back at Stiles. "If Alpha 1 is still alive, you're bait."

Stiles narrowed his eyes. "If you killed him?"

"Then you're not much of anything."

* * *

In the early hours of the morning, Boyd pulled into a small roadside gas station. Stiles was fidgety. He had to pee like a racehorse and he couldn't feel anything in his arms below his elbows.

Boyd opened the backseat and pulled him out. He gave Stiles a hard look as he undid the ropes tying his wrists. "If you run, I will catch you. You know it, and I know it. Don't even try, okay?"

Stiles wanted desperately to run away, to escape, but they were in the flat nothing of Utah and Boyd was right; he'd be caught instantaneously. Instead Boyd led him into the dirty bathroom behind the pumps. He locked the door and busied himself at the toilet. When he was finished he washed his hands and looked pointedly at Stiles.

"I know you have to go, man."

Stiles groaned and muttered about lack of privacy. He closed his eyes and went, trying to think about being anywhere but exactly where he was.

When they were both finished Boyd led him into the gas station. He picked out a few candy bars and motioned for Stiles to pick something to eat. Stiles toyed with the notion of talking to the clerk, getting him to call the police or someone, but he could feel Boyd's eyes trained on him the entire time. He eventually came to the granola bar section and found the Clif bars. They even had the macadamia nut kind.

He shook his head viciously and picked a few up.

Please, he thought, please let him just be dead.

And if he's not, please don't let him come after me. Protect him.

He joined Boyd at the register and Boyd paid. Before they left, Boyd tied his wrists together in front of him. Stiles was grudgingly impressed at the impossible knots he used.

"Is this really necessary?" But Boyd just stared at him. They took off again as the sun just started to rise.

* * *

Derek had to stop, finally, after running solidly for four hours. He stumbled to a halt in a ditch alongside the road and panted viciously. He was exhausted. Unable to control himself, he transformed back into a man. The cold, packed dirt felt deliciously cool against his overheated skin.

Vaguely he heard other wolves, regular ones, howling for each other. Werewolf howling and gray wolf howling were as different from each other as Icelandic and English: there were common roots, and some borrowing here and there, but after being separated for so long, a speaker of one could not necessarily understand the other. Derek understood, though. He didn't need words to feel that loss and anxiety. He felt it, too.

He knew Stiles was the easy target. It made sense. It's what Derek would have done, at least, if it had been his job. Take the easy target, divide and conquer. If the stronger came after the smaller to protect him, he'd be emotionally compromised and physically weakened. And if he didn't, the smaller could be easily dealt with. A simple brilliance. A dark chuckle escaped him. If Peter really thought Stiles was the weaker of the two of them, he had another thing coming.

Derek cracked his neck and changed back into the wolf. His muscles twitched and his stomach growled, but he ignored both sensations. He still had nearly seven hundred miles to cover to Beacon Hills. With a snarl he set off again, paws ghostly silent on the asphalt.

* * *

The daylight came slowly, in pink and orange streaks. Derek's tongue lolled from his mouth as he limped towards a small truck stop with a diner somewhere on the border of Utah and Nevada. He had cut one of his pads sometime during his run, and the hard pace he'd set in the desert hadn't allowed it to heal. Despite the early hour, the smell of bacon and pumping gasoline filled the air.

He crept in the dawn shadows around the diner; somehow, he didn't think the truckers and waitresses would take too kindly to a massive, ravenous wolf in their midst. As it was, he could smell no less than seventeen different sources of gunpowder from the parking lot. Around the back he found a dumpster. It was full of greasy diner fare, greasy cardboard boxes, and greasy broken utensils. Derek happily climbed inside and went to work on a half eaten hamburger and some cold french fries.

He ate quickly, swallowing anything that would give him energy and fill his stomach. With a full stomach, he didn't have to think. All he had to do was run.

Or, possibly hitch a ride.

He crouched low in the dumpster as a flatbed truck full of construction machinery rumbled past and came to a groaning halt in a parking space. As the driver stepped gingerly out of his cab, he muttered, "Never gonna get to Redding today if the road freezes again..."

The only Redding within five hundred miles was in California. About an hour from Beacon Hills.

Derek leaped out of the dumpster, a few greasy pieces of paper clinging wetly to his fur. He shook them off and in the dusky light transformed back into a man. He looked around nervously and undid the latch on the truck. Then he crawled in between the metallic frames and found a small hidden space where he could rest and the driver wouldn't see him. He'd barely become the wolf again and curled up to sleep when the driver returned, a steaming cup of coffee clutched in his hand. He was still muttering to himself as he started the truck and grumbled out of the parking lot back onto the highway.

If a werewolf could sigh in relief, Derek did. He could feel his pad close up already, and the food he'd eaten went straight to his tired and torn muscles. The wind whistled past him as the truck sped up over sixty miles per hour – far faster than he had been running as a wolf. If the truck kept going all day, they would be in California by the afternoon.

As he relaxed, he started thinking about Stiles.

Derek missed him. Apart from the worry, and the helplessness, not having Stiles next to him just felt wrong. They had been together for five solid days. At every waking moment he knew someone was next to him whom he could trust. He knew that there was always someone there who would fight him every step, make him question his CIA trained instincts, make him feel human and alive. And now, though it had barely started, he knew there was someone out there who wanted to love him.

An involuntary whine cut through him. Derek buried his head and tried to get some sleep. He dreamed of two things: killing his uncle, and kissing Stiles.

* * *

Stiles blearily recognized the burnt out husk of a house they pulled up to. Boyd stiffly got out of the car and pulled open the door to the backseat. He accidentally pulled Stiles too hard though, and sent him sprawling into the leaves.

"Now now, Boyd," came a drawling voice from the wraparound porch, "be careful with our guest."

Stiles struggled to his feet. His face was murderous. Boyd held onto his shoulders, an immovable statue of calm.

Peter sauntered down the burned stairs and approached him. "Genim Stilinski," he remarked. "I've been wanting to meet you for some time now."

"Go to hell," Stiles lashed out. He struggled against Boyd, not backing down even when the other began to growl softly at him. "And you don't get to call me that. You can call me Stiles."

Peter cocked his head to the side, smiling softly. "Does my nephew get to call you Genim?"

Stiles only glared at him. If he had been a wolf, Peter was sure he would have torn him apart. Even without supernatural powers, he wasn't sure Stiles wouldn't do it anyway.

"Your father is safe, by the way." Peter motioned with his hand and Boyd dragged Stiles after him up into the house. It stank of mildew and desolation. "And so are the McCalls. I'll keep my word. You got here before Wednesday, so they'll be unharmed."

A tiny bloom of relief blossomed in Stiles' chest. At least his father would be alive to mourn his death. Boyd set him down in a chair in the middle of what Stiles thought had been the living room. At least, there was still a couch and a lamp in it. The couch was ruined but the lamp looked new. Stiles flexed against the bonds around his wrists, almost relishing the flash of pain as his sprained wrist protested. It proved he was still alive.

"Well?" He demanded as Peter and Boyd simply hovered over him. "Are you guys going to get on with it or what?" Fear made him angry.

Peter gave him a wolfish smile. "Get on with what?"

"Torturing me," Stiles growled, his eyes narrowed. "Or whatever you two have planned."

"I told you," Boyd said quietly to Peter, "he'd be a good addition. But he'll never submit to you."

Stiles whipped his head up so hard the chair creaked backwards a few inches. He said furiously, "If you two are talking about turning me into a werewolf, you can both fucking forget it." He pushed back on the chair, succeeding only in toppling over. As he staggered up he cried, "I'm not going to work for you or join your shitty pack!"

Peter picked him up with a sigh and thrust him back in the chair. He leaned closer and wrapped his hand around Stiles' neck. Stiles could feel the claws prickling his skin. "Oh, Mr. Stilinski," he whispered dangerously, fangs extended, "you don't have a choice."


	10. Two Choices

**AN: **I do not own Teen Wolf or the Bourne movies. **Warning! **This chapter contains a moment of anti-gay language and violence.

* * *

Derek awoke a few hours later. The sun was higher now and his wolf eyes squinted in the brightness. He crouched and surreptitiously looked out at the scenery passing by from his vantage point on the flatbed. There seemed to be far less desert and a lot more city. As he looked around, a sign flew by, welcoming him to the outskirts of Reno, Nevada.

He was nearly there.

The truck was slowing down for a mandatory weight check. As it barreled onto the scale, Derek made his move. He leaped dramatically from the bed of the truck and could practically feel the shock and amazement of the passing motorists. The truck driver screeched in terror and nearly crashed on the scale, but he took no notice of any of that. He just ran west, harder than he'd ever run in his life. He reveled in the feeling of his muscles moving and the feeling of hard mountain soil beneath his paws. Dirt and pine needles flew behind him as he ran.

"Stiles," he panted. "I'm coming for you, Stiles."

* * *

That evening found Stiles sitting the same wooden chair in the basement of the Hale house. His hands were bound behind his back and his ankles were tied to the wooden legs. Despite this, Stiles still stared at Peter with hatred and anger. Even though his ribs were cracked, and his lip and eyebrow were bleeding, and his diaphragm struggled for every breath in pain and panic, he looked directly into Peter's eyes without flinching. He was starting to make Boyd, who had watched on from the staircase, nervous for the young man and his act of defiance.

"Maybe you'll have to give up on this one, Peter." He was only half-joking.

Peter wiped his face with a handkerchief. Stiles dully wondered who even carried handkerchiefs anymore. "I never give up on anyone, Boyd." Though he was attempting to be mild and unconcerned, Stiles was proud of the undercurrent of frustration beneath the man's voice. "I didn't give up on you, did I?"

Stiles coughed and spat a mouthful of blood on the cement floor. "You really should give up on me," he said. He smiled, and his teeth were red. "Come on, man, you don't want my hyperactive little ass in your pack."

Peter growled softly. There were definite notes of frustration hidden in it. He pocketed his handkerchief and without warning slapped Stiles across the face. It rang out clearly in the dark basement and Stiles felt his lip slip open again.

"All you have to do is say yes, Stiles," Peter said. "Your injuries will heal. You'll have super powers, just like in those comics I know you love to read."

Stiles spit again. He glared at Peter and seethed, "You didn't touch my comics at my dad's house, did you? Those are worth a fucking fortune."

Boyd chuckled from his seat on the stairs. "What do you have?"

Stiles leaned around Peter and answered, "I have a mint copy of The Amazing Spiderman #1. Street value: over $80,000." He smirked smugly as Boyd's jaw dropped.

"Seriously?" Boyd made to stand but Peter snarled at him with pulsing red eyes. He faltered and sat, eyes downcast.

Peter pinched the bridge of his nose and flared his nostrils. "Mr. Stilinski -"

"You know," Stiles grinned, "if you want to put your mouth on me, you might as well call me Stiles."

A fist landed in his gut, cutting off his air and making him cough and wheeze violently. As he choked, Peter thwacked him in the nose. From a normal person it might have only stung, but from a werewolf it was an instant bloody nose, possibly a break. Stiles grunted in pain, blood dripping down over his lips. He thought it must be broken. Peter bent over to look him in the eye while he struggled for breath. "I think you're just wasting my time, Mr. Stilinski," he murmured. "What are you stalling for?"

Stiles groaned and leaned back in the chair. His head was ringing, but when he opened his eyes and looked back at Peter his voice was surprisingly steady. "I'm waiting for Derek. Or for you to kill me. One or the other."

Peter growled and shoved against Stiles' chest. Stiles could only brace himself for impact as he fell against the floor. He shouted out when he landed on his sprained wrist, which broke instantly underneath him. A heavy booted foot rested on his chest. Stiles looked up to Peter's face, still challenging him through his pain. Boyd was standing, eyes yellow, ready and waiting.

"He is not coming," Peter hissed. "Boyd killed him."

"Boyd said he might have survived," Stiles grunted through the blood flow.

Peter rolled his eyes and gave Boyd an angry look. "It's possible. The moon exploding is possible. Let's do a little math, shall we?"

His booted foot moved and Stiles was suddenly flung the right way up. Peter paced in front of him, tapping his fingers.

"Boyd picked you up around ten, right? Let's say it took Derek an hour to heal. Just for argument's sake. So Derek started on his trek at eleven. Now werewolves are fast, faster than a regular wolf, and we have greater stamina. But then," and he smirked at Stiles, "you must know that by now."

Stiles spat at him again, deliberately aiming for his shoes.

Peter wiped his boot on Stiles' dirty jeans. "Boyd found you about nine hundred miles away. Isn't that right, Boyd?" He called to his beta, who nodded.

"So, a wolf running non stop at around 45 miles per hour -"

"Twenty hours." Stiles whispered.

Peter slapped the back of his head. "Sorry, Mr. Stilinski," he said loudly, "I didn't catch that."

Stiles coughed again. "He'd be here in twenty hours."

"Good job, Mr. Stilinski. You win this portion of the contest! Boyd, tell him what he's won!"

"Not dying just yet," Boyd quipped.

"But!" Peter stopped his pacing. "For all his innumerable faults, my nephew is smart. He wouldn't run all the way here. That'd be suicide! And he wouldn't risk himself for a pathetic piece of shit like you," he added maliciously.

Stiles bit back a bitter laugh. "You want me."

"No," Peter corrected, "I want to break you. Then I'm going to bite you. But where was I? Oh, yes. Derek would never run all the way. He'd steal another car, hitch a ride, something, anything to get here faster, right?"

He leaned inches away from Stiles' face. "Right?" He questioned again, his eyes tinting red.

Stiles refused to answer. For the first time, he looked away from Peter and down at the floor. He had been thinking similar thoughts for hours. It had already been twenty hours since Stiles had been kidnapped. So where was Derek?

Please be dead. Don't come after me. Run away, Derek, far far away.

"So where is your precious fucking hero?" Peter whispered viciously in his ear. "He either doesn't want you, or he's dead. Which scenario would you prefer?"

A lone wolf's howl wailed in the distance.

Peter looked up, totally disbelieving. Stiles could only sag into the chair, a relieved smile spreading across his face.

* * *

Derek had never been so tired. Every movement burned as he ran, and not even his werewolf healing could keep up. The disgusting burger he'd eaten had long since been burned away for fuel, and he'd only stopped for water once, somewhere in the Plumas National Forest.

His entire being wanted to drop and sleep for days. He very nearly did, and even began to slow down.

Then he caught the scent.

It was so faint, it hardly even existed anymore. It had been left at high speed, leaking out of a barely cracked window. But it was there.

Derek did stop then. He lowered his head to the ground, sniffing once, twice, just to be sure. He had to be absolutely sure. His trembling muscles and sickened heart depended on it.

He stepped forward, scenting the air. Took another step, another sniff.

Stiles.

He took off again, faster than ever. His muscles screamed and healed and screamed again, but he only lengthened his stride as the scent continued to get stronger. Soon he began to recognize patches of the forest; once he had run here, carefree, with his family. The memories only provoked him further.

Derek howled into the darkening sky. Peter and his beta would find him soon, he knew. He would have to fight, but before he fought for his life, he wanted Stiles to hear him. He wanted him to hear, even if Stiles couldn't understand the language, that he had come for him, had crossed mountains and deserts and suffered for him.

Because he loved him.

Already he could smell the burnt remains of his house, though he was still about a mile away. Crashes echoed in the forest and Derek heard Peter before he saw him. The hulking alpha, in a tangle of dark fur and sharp claws, collided with him, slamming them both into a tree. Dizzy from the impact, Derek saw the werewolf who had killed him, crouched some feet away from them. He was still half-human and snarling savagely.

Peter transformed back into his human form easily, his stark nakedness completely ignored. "You're very nearly shy of your deadline, nephew," he chided, as though Derek were seven years old again and had done poorly on an assignment. "I thought you would be here much earlier."

Derek whined. His shoulder felt broken and wasn't starting to heal yet; whether he was so exhausted he couldn't heal or whether it was because an alpha had injured him, he didn't know. Either way, he lurched to his feet and growled malevolently. He could smell Stiles' blood on Peter's hands.

He was so exhausted he didn't even smell the tranquilizer dart before it hit him in the chest.

* * *

Derek sagged limply into wolfsbane infused handcuffs. He was tied to a rickety wooden chair in the middle of what had been his family's living room. Someone had given him sweatpants. How thoughtful. Dimly he counted the hairbeats in the house, something his mother had always taught him to do. One, definitely Peter. Two, calm and collected. Three, erratic, afraid, elated. Stiles.

Peter appeared in his line of sight, fully and impeccably clothed again, as thought he hadn't just romped in the woods. "Good, you're awake. That wasn't even a particularly large dose; you must have been exhausted." His tone was condescending.

Derek growled low in his chest and glared. Peter took one look at him and burst out laughing. "My God, you two are perfect for each other. You even glare alike."

"He learned from the best," Derek grumbled.

Peter laughed again. "He's downstairs, as I'm sure you can hear. Safe and sound."

The blood Derek could smell reeking from the basement said otherwise. "Why haven't you killed him yet?"

"Because I promised you I wouldn't if you got here by tonight, and here you are." Peter spread his arms, gesturing widely. "And I always keep my promises."

"Bullshit," Derek grunted. His chest hurt from being body checked into a tree. "You always promised Mom you'd give us dinner before dessert and you never did."

"That was a long time ago, Derek." His uncle's face looked hard and closed. "We must think of the future. Speaking of which, I have a proposition for you."

Derek only glared at him harder.

"I'm going to give you two choices. One choice lets you and Mr. Stilinski live. The other kills you both." Peter held up two fingers to Derek's face. He tried to bite him, but Peter only smiled tightly. "The first choice," and he dropped one finger, "is where you accept me as your alpha, stop this silly little defection, and join me. We fake Mr. Stilinski's death to appease the CIA, you apologize to Mr. Cross, and everything is right as rain. I'll even bite him." Peter smiled wolfishly at Derek's sudden snap to attention. "And you two can continue your little clandestine love affair. But you both will submit to me."

"What do you want?"

"Power, Derek." Peter's eyes took on a similar dark look Derek had seen on Stiles' face the last time they'd been together. While Stiles' meant a lust for him, Peter's was a lust for power. Suddenly he understood everything.

He drooped against the chair, the wind completely knocked out of him. "You killed everyone because you wanted to be the alpha instead of Mom."

Peter threw his hands up in the air. He didn't bother denying it. "She was four fucking minutes older than me! It should have been me! Instead I was relegated to being a babysitter for her sniveling pups and you, you fucking faggot," he suddenly grabbed Derek's chin, forcing him to look him in his red eyes, "were the worst of them all. Laura was the one who was supposed to survive, and I was supposed to bite Molly and Megan. Not you. Never you!"

Derek was propelled backwards, the chair leaving skidmarks against the charred wooden floor. He gaped at Peter, still trying to process this unfathomable information. "What about Kate?"

"She was a pawn, just like you," Peter responded roughly. "Just a way to get inside. She just did her job a little too well."

He turned and jabbed a finger into Derek's bare chest. The cut left behind by his extended claw immediately began to coagulate. "I still haven't told you about option number two. You refuse me. I kill Mr. Stilinski while you watch. And then I kill you."

Peter grabbed him by the hair and ripped him from the chair. Derek, too weak to fight and bound with the wolfsbane cuffs, could only bark at him. Peter dragged him to the door leading to the basement. He whispered into Derek's ear, "You two have til tomorrow morning to decide. I suggest you sleep on it." And he threw him down the stairs before slamming the door and locking it.

Derek landed painfully on his back at the base of the stairs. He gave up trying to stand after his legs collapsed underneath him; one of his ankles was badly twisted.

"Hi." A pale voice called to him from the gloom. It was Stiles, still bruised and bloody and tied to another identical wooden chair. A high-pitched whine escaped Derek. Whether it was happiness or need he couldn't say. All he knew was that he wanted to be twenty feet to his right. He tried again to stand, his left leg shaking uncontrollably as it tried to heal. He could hear Stiles muttering quietly, "Come on big guy, come on..."

He stood. Then he took a step forward. Another hop. After five torturous minutes of hopping and staggering he collapsed to his knees in front of Stiles, his hands against his chest and his head in the younger man's lap. Derek inhaled his scent. It was dark with pain and blood and burnt with anger, but there it was, a bloom of candy cane happiness that he knew must be for him.

"Hi," he finally managed to croak in response.

Stiles laughed softly and bent at his waist to rest his cheek on Derek's sweat-soaked hair. "You came after me."

Derek sighed into Stiles' thigh. He nudged Stiles' face and looked up at him. "Did you think I wouldn't?" He couldn't disguise the hurt in his voice.

"I thought... it would be better if you didn't," Stiles murmured into Derek's hair. "It would have been better if you could leave me and escape -"

Derek could only silence him by surging up and pressing his lips to Stiles'. They were chapped and bleeding, but Derek was soft and undemanding. The younger man gasped meekly and kissed him back, only pulling away when Derek couldn't help but nibble on his lower lip and draw blood from the sensitive split.

"I'm sorry," Derek whispered against Stiles' cheek. He nosed against the stubble starting to grow there. "But you are a fucking idiot."

Stiles leaned back, surprised.

"Of course I would come for you," Derek insisted. He pressed closer so his entire body fit between Stiles' knees. He fit his face into the hollow of Stiles' throat and breathed in again, wanting to fill his head with the scent that they were both alive.

"Derek." When he didn't move, Stiles grumbled and nudged the other man with his knee. "I would love to hug you, dude, seriously, but I am tied to a chair. Can we fix that before my wrist heals weird?"

An angry flash passed over Derek's face. He gracelessly shuffled around to undo Stiles' tied hands. It was difficult, considering his own hands were bound, but in the end he managed it. After he'd freed Stiles' ankles Stiles untied his hands. Stiles stood weakly, then surged forward to embrace Derek, clutching at him like a lifeline. They supported each other for a few steps until they could fall against the basement wall. They stretched their legs out and Stiles winced, palming his side with the cracked ribs.

"So," he gritted through the pain, "how are we going to get out of here?"

"We're not."

"What do you mean, we're not?" Stiles was flabbergasted. "You're the guy who just ran nine hundred miles in a day. You don't fucking give up."

"I'm not giving up," Derek grunted. "My family designed this basement to keep werewolves in during the full moon, when we can lose control. It's fireproof, soundproof, lined with wolfsbane and mountain ash – like an electric fence for werewolves," he explained. He pointed to the few windows at ground level. All were barred. "That's bulletproof glass with steel bars. And the basement door is lined with mountain ash too. Once the door is closed I can't get through, and it has three deadbolts, so neither can you." He sighed and leaned against the cold cement, thoroughly defeated.

Stiles leaned back with him, his brain furiously working to find a flaw in Derek's description. But even he had to admit defeat; he'd been down there for the better part of the afternoon and hadn't seen a weakness.

"I'm hungry," he grumbled a few minutes later.

"Of course you are," Derek said with a smile. He wrapped his arm around Stiles' shoulder and kissed his temple.

* * *

A pizza and two large bottles of water were hand delivered by Boyd about a half hour later. Stiles groaned when he read the label for his favorite Beacon Hills pizza place, one he hadn't visited in the better part of a year. Derek began growling the second the door opened, but Boyd was balancing the food in one hand and Derek's service pistol in the other. It was still loaded with wolfsbane bullets.

"You shouldn't have," Stiles snarked as Boyd tossed the food their way. The pizza nearly escaped the box as it flew towards them.

"Fine, starve." Boyd shrugged and backed slowly up the stairs, the gun still trained on the both of them. The door closed with several audible clicks.

It was just a pepperoni pizza, but they both nonverbally agreed it was the best pizza they'd ever tasted. Derek ate half of the pizza before Stiles had even finished his second slice.

"No, it's okay," he gestured to the remaining two slices. "Go on, take them."

Derek started feeling guilty about wanting them, but Stiles nodded encouragingly. He was too busy trying to eat the scalding food without agitating the cut on his lip. After finishing, Derek could feel the calories going to work inside his body. His muscles felt less sore and his ankle felt completely fine.

They sat back against the wall again, sated and exhausted.

"Come here." Derek pulled him closer. Stiles grumbled good-naturedly and fell against Derek's chest. It felt awkward at first, but Derek maneuvered him so he sat on his lap, his head resting in the crook of Derek's neck and their legs tangled together.

"I missed you," Derek finally whispered.

"I know," Stiles yawned against his ear. "Boyd is way worse driving company than you are. I had to pee in front of him and everything."

"Oh no," Derek muttered sarcastically, "what a nightmare."

"It was legitimately awful. I could go on and on."

"I had to raid a diner dumpster for food," Derek murmured. "I think I win the most-hardship-in-the-last-twenty-four-hours award."

Stiles was quiet for a minute. "If that's an actual awards category," he whispered, "I think I should win. I had to watch you die. I screamed for you," Stiles voice broke, "and you didn't answer."

Derek tightened his grip around Stiles' waist. "I had to lose you." He placed a gentle kiss on Stiles' forehead. "That was pretty bad, too. And then of course I did do the dying part."

Stiles gave a watery chuckle that turned into a grimace of pain. His ribs twinged underneath his skin. Derek slid his hand carefully against Stiles' hot skin and pressed against his ribs. Stiles hissed in pain at the pressure, but then the pain was suddenly gone. He opened his eyes to see the veins of Derek's arm darken. Derek's eyes glowed blue for a moment before he removed his hand.

"What – what was that?" The sudden lack of pain made him feel heady and weak.

"I took some of your pain away." Derek flexed his hand. "Helped you heal a little bit. The pain bit is only temporary though."

Stiles could only stare at Derek's hand. He reached out and tugged at Derek's fingers. Derek let his hand go limp so Stiles could examine it. He pressed his fingertips to the pads of Derek's own fingers and traced the lines of his palm. Derek nosed along his hairline while he laced their fingers together.

"I can't believe you didn't think I would come for you." Derek whispered. He looked at their joined hands.

"It's not that I didn't think you would," Stiles muttered. "It was -"

"You didn't think you were worth saving." Derek squeezed him gently again. "I know."

Stiles could only nod.

"Remember what I told you last night?"

"About being a guard dog?"

Derek shook his head and snorted. "I told you I never wanted to get rid of you." He disentangled their fingers to delicately cup Stiles' face. "That sort of implies the 'I will do anything for you.'" Stiles shook his head, but he was smiling. Derek kissed his forehead, his cheeks, the very tip of his nose, before capturing his lips again.

"I missed you too," Stiles whispered into his mouth. He felt Derek grumble contentedly against him.

They kissed slowly, gently, as though they had all the time in the world. As though the world wasn't going to end the very next morning.

After a few minutes Derek let out a shaky breath and leaned his forehead onto Stiles'. "We have to talk," he muttered. "We – we have to decide."

"They gave you two choices too, right?" Stiles chuckled dryly. "Fuck them. I'm not taking the bite from Peter."

Derek whined against Stiles' skin. "You'll live." His hands clutched Stiles' shoulder blades and pulled him even closer.

"I don't care," Stiles whispered. When Derek whined again he continued, "I'm not being, like, suicidal or anything. I want to live, okay? But I don't want to be a werewolf if it means I have to be like them.

"I'd rather be like you." He gave Derek a widemouthed smile, and Derek thought he'd never seen anything more beautiful. It was getting colder in the basement, and neither of them were wearing shirts or had blankets of any kind. Their breath began to fog. Stiles shivered, both out of cold and exhaustion.

"Hey," Derek nosed along his jaw. "Go to sleep. It's okay."

"But -"

"Stiles." The gentle growl sent new, more pleasant shivers up Stiles' spine. He acquiesced though, and settled himself more comfortably on Derek's lap. His hands eventually loosened from Derek's neck and fell limply between them. Soon his breathing was easy and even.

Derek wouldn't sleep. He wanted to savor his last night with a human Stiles before he told Peter yes. What else could he tell him? Kill my pack, kill my new reason for living? He was too selfish to let Stiles die.

But what if...

A tiny idea blossomed in his mind. Derek didn't look at it, think about it, in case the flame of it snuffed out. He worked around it, fanning it, adding new pieces until it was a full fledged plan.

The moon had been aloft for hours by the time he settled into sleep, nervous but satisfied about his idea. Stiles was drooling on his shoulder again, but he didn't care. He wouldn't have it any other way.

* * *

**AN part two: **Okay, so my inspiration for the beginning part when Derek finally smells Stiles is totally from Balto. I can't even lie about that. Also! I will totally pay someone to draw me a picture of Derek collapsed in front of Stiles' chair. I'm not even joking.


	11. Genim

**AN: **I do not own Teen Wolf or the Bourne movies.

* * *

Derek woke up before the sun had risen to the sound of a car driving away. He lifted his head from its resting place on the top of Stiles' hair and breathed in the stale basement air. There was only one heartbeat left in the house, and Derek was positive it wasn't Peter's.

Stiles was rousing in his arms. Derek nuzzled his cheek and murmured, "You can go back to sleep. The sun's not even up yet." But Stiles blinked tiredly and stretched, whacking Derek in the face as he raised his arms above his head.

"Sorry," he whispered with a grimace. He cradled his wrist gently. It was purple and red with bruising. Derek took it in his hands and Stiles watched in awe as Derek's veins darkened again. Some of the bruising even began to heal before Derek took his hand away. Stiles took his hand back, mesmerized at the lack of pain. It barely even felt like a sprain.

"How come you never did this before? Like when I got shot?"

Derek shrugged. "I don't know, really. Healing and taking away pain... it's kind of personal."

Stiles blushed. He kissed Derek on the cheek. After a moment he whispered, "Was that a car?"

"Yeah," Derek nodded. "I think Peter just left. Not sure why."

Stiles cracked his neck and struggled to his feet. He offered his uninjured hand to Derek and helped him up. "When do you think our time is up?"

Derek looked out one of the barred windows. "Probably when he gets back, or when the sun rises." He gave Stiles a small shrug. "I'd say we at least have an hour or two."

Stiles closed his eyes with a sigh and leaned against Derek, pressing their chests together tightly. The older man enveloped him in a gentle hug. "I'm still not saying yes to him." A growl rumbled under Derek's skin. Stiles turned his head so his nose rested behind Derek's ear. He nipped at the shell of it and Derek's growl cut off abruptly. He took advantage of the silence to place a kiss on his lips, pushing them both back against the wall.

"Stiles -"

"Shh," Stiles whispered into his lips. "I want this with you." He pushed his knee between Derek's legs, so reminiscent of that hotel room back in Wyoming. Like then as now, Derek was hard beneath the borrowed sweatpants.

Derek's breath caught in his throat as Stiles moved his lips to his throat and bit down. He whined when Stiles soothed over it with his tongue and bit again. Stiles licked up into Derek's stubble and nibbled on his jawline. His skin tasted salty and smoky, masculine and feral. Derek's hands spread over the smooth expanse of Stiles' back and reveled in the feel of the subtle muscles moving beneath them.

Stiles was dipping his head lower and lower over Derek's chest, his tongue lapping into every crevice of muscle. His knees began to bend and soon his tongue was lavishing the band of skin directly over the top of the sweatpants. He spread his hands over Derek's hips to hold him in place as he placed featherlight kisses down the trail of hair beneath his navel. Derek's erection was painfully obvious next to his face.

All of the breath in Derek's lungs left him when Stiles began to mouth the paper thin cotton between his legs. He put his hands gently on Stiles' head and began to say, "I don't – you don't have to do -"

"Derek." Stiles looked into his eyes, open mouthed and wide eyed with want. "I've wanted to do this since Illinois." His eyes still trained on Derek's face, he licked a wet stripe up the underside of his cotton covered cock. Derek groaned and sagged a little against the wall. "I want you." Stiles started creeping the sweatpants down around Derek's hips.

"Tell me not to do this, man," Stiles murmured into the fabric covering his leg. "If this isn't something you want."

Derek groaned and sagged against the wall. "I've n-never done this before."

Stiles looked up at him, a smirk on his face. "Well, I mean, I never did peg you as gay, considering the whole, uh, Kate thing, but you are in luck my friend. I happen to be a master at these." His hand came up to cup Derek through his pants.

"No," Derek whimpered, "I mean I've – no one has ever – not even Kate -"

"What?" Stiles' eyebrows narrowed. "Y-you've never gotten a blowjob before? Not ever?"

Derek could only nod. He leaned his head back, ashamed.

Stiles sighed and pressed a gentle kiss to the V of Derek's hips. He rested his chin against Derek's warm skin and looked up at him. "It's nothing to be ashamed of. I can stop -"

"No!" Derek was louder than he meant to be. Stiles snickered as Derek balled his hands into fists as his sides, unable to articulate just how much he didn't want Stiles to stop.

"I'll go slow, okay?" Stiles brought his hands back up to the waistband and tugged. "And you can tell me if you need to stop."

Soon the pants were around Derek's knees and his cock was in Stiles' warm hand. Derek put his fist into his mouth and bit down as Stiles ran the point of his tongue along the dark blue vein. Wet heat from a warm mouth surrounded his testicles and he groaned out loud when Stiles sucked on his sack – first one, then the other. Stiles kept his word: he went slow, leaving behind teasing kisses, gentle licks, and making him harder than he'd ever been in his life.

Stiles kissed the insides of Derek's thighs lightly, nibbling on the dark, sensitive skin. Derek's cock twitched when Stiles wrapped his hand around him again and bit softly into his thigh. Unable to help himself, Derek thrust into Stiles' fist. The friction made him see stars. He could feel Stiles grinning into his thigh.

Fangs erupted from his mouth and he bit into his fist to silence himself as Stiles began to suck delicately on the tip of his cock. Stiles' cheeks were hollowed out and his tongue was bathing over the oversensitive head, lapping up the beads of precome that had gathered there. His lips moved forward down his shaft, tongue following every inch. Derek couldn't help but thrust into that warmth. He pulled back immediately, wanting to apologize but Stiles growled and gripped his hips harder, holding him in place. Derek tried to control himself, feeling claws desperate to erupt beneath his fingernails, but Stiles was driving him crazy, the edges of his teeth scraping gently against his thin skin.

"Fuck, Stiles."

Stiles hummed against his cock. He slid his mouth off and looked up at him again with a distinctly proud expression. He nuzzled the inside of Derek's thighs again and muttered something even Derek's hearing couldn't catch. Derek stroked his cheek and tilted his head back up.

"What was that?"

"You can call me Genim. If you want."

Derek wanted to kiss him then more than he had ever wanted anything in his life: kiss him and tell him he wanted him more than everything, more than killing Peter or living a normal life, but Stiles' mouth was on him again and he couldn't think about anything else besides thrusting into it.

Stiles groaned softly as Derek's cock filled his mouth. A bit of drool leaked between his lips and he made to wipe it away before Derek pushed his hand away to thumb the drool away himself. His callused thumb pressed against the corner of Stiles' mouth.

"Fuck, Stiles, Genim I'm – get off -"

He tried to push Stiles away but Stiles only sucked harder, his tongue flicking at his tip and his hand joining his mouth at a bruising pace. Derek's eyes flashed and he bit down on his hand again, blood dripping down his wrist, as he came into Stiles' mouth.

Stiles closed his eyes as the salty, almost bitter liquid filled his mouth. He swallowed it down, relishing the taste. After a second he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and stood, grinning like a madman. "How about that, huh? Not bad?"

Derek only answered by finally collapsing against the wall and sinking to the floor, a dazed expression on his face. His sweats were still tangled around his knees. Stiles chuckled and settled himself next to him.

"Do we have time for you to do that again?" Derek mumbled, his eyes still wide and staring at the opposite wall.

Stiles laughed and reached out to cup Derek's cheek. "Maybe."

Derek rubbed his face into Stiles' palm. He sighed softly and whispered into Stiles' wrist, "Genim."

"That's my name," Stiles stroked Derek's cheek. "Don't wear it out."

* * *

"What if I say yes to him?" Derek's voice was quiet and gruff in the steadily lightening basement.

Stiles sat up from his position on Derek's shoulder and studied Derek's face. Derek swallowed nervously under the scrutiny. "You would, wouldn't you?" When he didn't answer Stiles swore under his breath and fought his way back into a standing position. "You don't get to decide how this ends, Derek. I told you yesterday, I can't – it's not what I want." Agitated, Stiles paced back and forth across the basement. Derek could only watch from his seat on the floor.

"Stiles..." Derek stepped up and caught Stiles by the elbow. He reeled the unwilling man back into his arms and dipped his head slightly to look him in the eyes. "I am trying to save your life. I will do whatever it takes to protect you, even if that means submitting and – and going back to what I was doing." He looked down and whispered, teeth gritted, "I can't lose you."

Stiles laughed bitterly. "Dude, I know my blowjobs are great but they're not that great." He caught Derek's chin and tilted his head back up. "Hey," he growled. "You don't need to submit. You're better than that."

"I'm really not," Derek argued. He tightened his grip around Stiles' waist. "I'm an omega, remember? A pack is important to me."

Stiles' mouth turned angrily downwards. "I thought I was your pack," he said.

"You are." Derek nudged Stiles' chin with his nose. "Of course you are."

Stiles huffed. "You don't understand, Derek. I'm not – I'm not a killer."

Derek, confused, looked back into Stiles' eyes. "What are you talking about?"

"You know what being part of Peter's pack will mean. He'll turn me into a killer."

"You shot Isaac." Derek, after twelve years doing it for a living, found the idea of taking a life fairly inconsequential, and he didn't understand Stiles' emotions. He suddenly smelled rank with fear. Derek's nose crinkled at it.

"That was totally different and you fucking know it!" Stiles pushed against Derek's chest angrily. Derek let him go. "I – my life before I met you was dedicated to helping people. And since we started this it's been all about helping you, taking care of you. Shooting Isaac was to protect us. But Peter," and Stiles ran his hand through his hair in a heartbreaking way, "will turn me into some kind of rabid dog. He'll put us both in a cage and rattle it until we'll do anything just to escape. And I almost broke yesterday. Imagine what he can do with our whole lives."

He threw his hands up defensively when Derek made to approach him. "I love you man," he choked out, eyes wet with tears, "but I will not be that. Not even for you."

Derek squeezed his eyes shut to prevent any tears of his own from falling. He shook his head and tried to pull Stiles back to him. The younger man hesitated again, but Derek was insistent.

"Okay," Derek whispered into his ear. Stiles instantly became less tense. "Okay. We can say no."

Stiles let out a loud, relieved breath. "Thank fuck," he sighed. "Okay, we need to think of something then. Some way to get out of here." He nodded his head towards the barred windows.

Derek turned his head slightly, not really listening. He heard the faint creaking of a bed several floors above them and the soft padding of bare feet on wood. It was time to try his plan, do or die. He gripped Stiles' face and whispered fiercely, "You trust me, right?"

"Yeah, of course," Stiles said, bewildered. He clutched Derek's hands. "What are you thinking?"

"You just need to trust me," he whispered, and crashed their lips together. The footsteps were getting closer to the door.

* * *

Boyd, still in his pajama pants and t-shirt, grasped Derek's service pistol and carefully opened the cellar door. He took the steps one at a time, scenting the air. "You two need to come out where I can see you," he called out. "And you both better be dressed. Jesus, I can smell you from upstairs." Derek stepped out first, blocking Stiles from view. A deep growl rippled through his chest.

"Where's Peter?"

"I can work autonomously from Peter, thanks," Boyd said calmly, a single eyebrow raised. "My orders are simple. You say yes, and I go back upstairs and make waffles. You say no, I shoot you both."

"Do we get waffles?" Derek asked sarcastically.

"No."

"I thought Derek was supposed to watch while Peter tore me apart," Stiles scoffed from behind Derek. "Continuity, man. You gotta follow these things through."

"Change of plans," Boyd sneered. He unclicked the safety and leveled it directly at Derek's face. "So, what will it be?" He said it as though he was asking Derek for his order at Starbucks.

Derek lunged.

He grabbed the gun and Boyd's wrist in one slick motion; Stiles crouched to the floor and covered his head when the gun went off, breaking off a chunk of cement from the wall. Another sick crack echoed through the basement and Boyd roared. Derek had broken his wrist when he'd taken the gun.

Before Boyd could charge at him, Derek quickly fired off several rounds into Boyd's chest. The younger man shook as each bullet exploded against the hard muscle. He fell to the floor, still growling weakly. His expression was fearful as his veins became dark tracks. Each bullet wound emitted a sickly purple smoke.

Stiles stood while Derek took the gun apart with rapid efficiency. Boyd choked and writhed on the ground, pain etched in every line of his face. "I think Peter forgot I was in the fucking Army," Derek growled when Stiles reached his side. "I know how to disarm people."

"This was your plan?" Stiles gestured angrily at Boyd. He stooped next to the dying werewolf. "Bull rush the guy with the gun and hope for the best?"

Derek only shrugged.

"Un-fucking-believable." Stiles shook his head and looked at Boyd. The choking was getting quieter but his eyes were still wide with fear. "Are you going to put him out of his misery or what?"

Derek growled again and extended his claws. A quick flash and Boyd's throat was missing. Stiles, trying not to betray his cool exterior, wiped off a few droplets of blood from his cheek.

"He was an engineering student in Seattle," Stiles mused.

"So?" Derek was sitting at Boyd's feet, pulling off his pants.

"I'm just saying, he was a kid like me."

Derek grunted as Boyd's pajama pants finally came free. He stood and offered them to Stiles, who gave him an inconceivably odd look. "He was nothing like you, Stiles. Put these on."

"Seriously? There's blood all over them." Stiles took the pants reluctantly between two fingers. "What am I supposed to do with them?"

Derek was busy ripping Boyd's shirt off. He was careful to avoid the wolfsbane bullet wounds. "You're going to wear them." The shirt came off barely intact. He threw that at Stiles too, who caught it gracelessly.

Stiles only gaped at him. "But... the blood -"

Derek grumbled and stood. His hands were covered in blood but he drew Stiles up in his arms anyway. "It's all part of the plan," he said, the vaguest traces of a smile visible on his face. "Still trust me?"

Stiles spared a disgusted look at the pajamas before pressing a kiss to Derek's lips. "We better kill Peter today," he murmured into his mouth, "or else I'm going to think of several painful ways for you to make this up to me."

Derek chuckled. "Just put the clothes on, Stiles. I promise I'm not just half-assing this." He turned his back while Stiles stripped and put the sticky pajamas on. When Stiles was finished he ran his hands up and down his arms, sniffing him.

"Dude, this is weird," Stiles whined, twitching uncomfortably. But Derek was satisfied; he didn't smell a thing like Stiles, only like Boyd and blood. He pushed Stiles gently away and pushed his own pants down. He raised his eyebrow at Stiles' appreciative stare.

"This is going to be weirder," he cautioned Stiles. "But if this works we're going to have a good chance against Peter." He motioned for Stiles to take a few steps back. His joints popped and lengthened as he transformed into his wolf. Derek looked at Stiles and snorted as his expression changed from lust to pure amazement.

"Can I...?" Derek stood still as Stiles stepped towards him and gently touched his fur. A grumble, not unlike a purr, came out unconsciously. "Dude. So cool."

Derek pushed him back again, then went to Boyd's body. He felt a little sickened about what he was going to do, and the wolfsbane was going to burn him, but it had to be done. He crouched down and began rolling on the body. Soon his own fur was slick with blood.

"You were right, Derek." Stiles looked a little green when Derek looked back at him. "That was way weirder."

Derek snapped to attention towards the window. He heard a car coming up the infrequently-used driveway. He transformed back into his half-wolf self and put a hand to his lips, motioning for quiet. They both headed up the stairs as quietly as possible, waiting for Peter.

* * *

Peter got out of his car into bright morning sunlight. He breathed deeply, taking in all the scents. He smelled trees, squirrels, rotting wood, and inside the house, a lot of blood and Boyd.

Excellent.

He sauntered up the stairs, whistling as he went.

* * *

**AN part two: **Yeah, so, I'm not great at sex scenes. Sorry!


	12. Dogfight

**AN:** I do not own Teen Wolf, the Bourne movies, or the book _The Golden Compass_ by Philip Pullman from which I pulled a ton of inspiration for the fight scene.

* * *

They opened the cellar door slowly, Stiles going first and peeking around the corner. They crouched behind the corner as they both heard the sounds of a car door opening and feet crunching on the dead leaves outside.

"Should – should I go hide or something?" Stiles asked him quietly. Derek nudged him on the hip with his hand, smearing a streak of rusty red blood on Boyd's white pajama t-shirt. Stiles turned and saw a small closet, what might have been a pantry once, just to his right. He skittered into it just as the screen door clattered open. He crouched in the back as Derek turned towards the door. The hair on the back of his head nearly stood up; it was the human equivalent of raised hackles.

"Boyd!" Peter cried out in the entryway. They heard him scrape his boots on the mat. "You better start waking up, I don't smell waffles yet -"

He stopped short at the sight of Derek, freed and covered in blood. Stiles couldn't help grinning at the shock evident on Peter's face for just a moment.

"No waffles today, Uncle Peter," Derek snarled. His face was contorting into the wolf shape again. "You should have remembered to count the heartbeats."

Before Peter could recover Derek had pounced, still growling ferociously and tearing at his throat. He was a wolf again, all dark hair and ferocious teeth. Stiles wanted ti cheer with pride from the closet. Peter reacted instinctively, shielding his face from the onslaught. Derek nearly had his throat in his teeth when Peter threw him across the room. He smashed through a collapsing wall, howling as he went. Boards and bits of debris followed him into the next room.

Peter roared and ripped off his jacket. It was lined with deep slashes through the expensive leather. He yelled at the hole where Derek had flown through, "Nice try, nephew!" His whole body began changing, the fabric of his clothing ripping as he turned into his wolf. He was massive, bigger than Derek, and a mixture of muddy brown and white. Stiles heard Derek shake bits of wood and brick off himself as Peter charged through the wall after him. There was a flurry of dust and dirt as both wolves began fighting.

Stiles had watched plenty of nature shows, both as a kid and an adult. He'd visited the National Zoo once or twice since moving to the east coast, too. The wolves there had fought while he watched, but it lasted only seconds before one gave up and walked away, tail tucked between its legs. He knew it was just a show for dominance. This was something far more brutal; the sight of two massive werewolves tearing each other apart was awesome, in that it inspired a terrible sort of awe. It was not a simple show of dominance or a teasing test of strength. It was to the death. Though Peter had size on his side – and Stiles thought that must be an alpha thing, because Derek was bigger than him in human form – Derek was faster, his jaws appearing one place and injuring somewhere else entirely the next. He nipped at Peter's tail and a few hot droplets of blood flew towards Stiles, landing in the dust on the floor. He reached out to them, feeling them stick in the dust. He didn't care which wolf they were from, but he reached for them anyway.

The very foundation of the house was shaking. Stiles covered his head as drywall dust rained on him. He stifled a cough into his elbow, terrified that Peter would remember he was there. Another snarl ripped through the living room and the biggest crash yet followed afterward; Derek had managed to rip away from Peter and throw him out the huge picture window.

Stiles tumbled out of the closet to follow them. Minding his hands, he leaned out of the broken window and watched them claw at each other. Their hackles were puffed up and they circled each other, growling and barking.

Suddenly Derek was whining, one of his front legs held close to his body. Stiles had the idea of going to him, standing in front of him to protect him, but his legs wouldn't move. He cried out, "Derek, watch out!"

Peter looked up at the house for a split second. Stiles could have sworn he had a smile on his wolf face.

He went back to toying with Derek, nipping almost playfully and knocking him over. Derek kept whining. His black fur was soaked with blood and his injured paw wasn't touching the ground anymore. He skipped backwards as Peter stood up on his back feet and grabbed the scruff of Derek's neck and shook viciously. Derek howled again as Peter threw him. Large tufts of hair scattered around like pine needles in the air.

But Stiles kept his eyes on Derek as Peter stood with his tail erect, another almost victorious grin on his muzzle. There was a rock outcrop on the side of the driveway. It was propped up a bit, and Derek was nearly standing on it.

His paw wasn't really injured. It was whole and fresh and ready to attack. He had taken advantage of Peter's desire to toy with him without giving him any real, life-threatening injuries, and what ones he had were already healed. Derek backed up against the rock, curling into it as though in submission.

"I win." Stiles was shocked to hear words, guttural and strange sounding, pass Peter's lips. His nose came within an inch of Derek's throat. "You lose."

Derek exploded up. He wrapped his jaws around Peter's throat and slashed it open. Blood spurted everywhere. It covered Derek's face and streamed down his fur, dripping onto the ground, but he didn't let go, not for a second, until he had completely torn Peter's throat out. Bits of gristle and guts hung from both sides of his jaws.

Stiles thought he looked proud.

Peter was slowly becoming a man again. He laid on the ground in the sunshine, gasping for air from the hole in his neck. Stiles leaped down over the porch steps and stopped just short of Peter's choking body. He stared at the entire scene, almost lost for words.

"Holy fuck!" He eventually yelled. Almost lost. Derek spat out the offal in his mouth and rolled his eyes, as much as a wolf could. He also transformed back into a man, ignoring his nakedness in the cold winter air. He looked down at his uncle on the ground.

"I win," he whispered. His breath fogged around his head. Stiles sidled around Peter to clasp him on the back.

"I can't believe it's over," he said. "I mean, a five minute fight ends our cross country road trip."

"Don't think for a second this is all over, Stiles," Derek said cautiously. Peter stopped choking.

They turned back towards the house. As he moved to wrap his arm around Stiles' shoulder, the dying man on the ground writhed and stood again in a flash. Before Derek could pull him away, Peter had Stiles in a choke hold and was backing away towards the house.

"Peter, let him go!" Derek's eyes were blue and his fangs had come out. Stiles struggled against Peter's vise-like grip as cold blood dripped down his neck onto his chest. The improbability of the situation weighed on his mind like glue.

Peter struggled to speak as his vocal cords dangled outside his body. He whispered against Stiles' ear, "I will always win, Derek." His lips curled over his fangs and saliva dripped down his chin.

Stiles felt the tips of fangs touch his wrist.

Derek lunged at him before Peter could bite Stiles. Stiles squealed in what he hoped came out manlier than it sounded as all three of them ended up on the ground in a tangle of limbs, blood, and teeth. He closed his eyes and tried to escape from the arm around his neck.

An angry whine cut off abruptly. The arm around Stiles' neck loosened and he bolted back upright. He was shaking from head to toe.

Derek stood with him. This time, Peter was unmistakably dead. His head was twisted at an odd angle. "There are only a few ways to kill a werewolf," he muttered, not looking at Stiles. A bruised sort of flush was creeping up his neck. Stiles knew well enough that Derek was ashamed of himself, ashamed that he hadn't made sure Peter was dead the first time, ashamed he'd let Stiles get so close to harm's way. "You have to – to make sure we can't heal from it. I'm sorry, I gave him a few seconds and he healed enough to get back up, I'm sorry, I'm -"

Stiles touched Derek's arm. His neck was starting to bruise, but what was that compared to being alive? Derek finally looked at him. His eyes were still glowing, but they were red instead of the familiar ice blue.

"Are... are you the alpha now?" He asked tentatively.

Derek nodded stiffly after a moment. He looked away from Stiles again, back towards the house. "That's – that's usually how this works. I mean, I'm not an expert on power exchanges, but, yeah."

Stiles looked around the front yard of the Hale house. Besides the now assuredly dead body of Peter Hale, it was quiet and calm. He even spotted a few birds on a pine branch. He tugged on Derek's arm again until Derek stepped closer. Stiles wrapped his arms around his neck and hugged him, breathing in his familiar scent. "What do we do now?"

Derek grunted into Stiles' shoulder where his face was buried. "They're not done chasing us," he murmured. "We're still in danger. When they find out Peter failed -"

"So we keep running?"

Derek nodded. "We have to."

Stiles was silent for a moment. "Can we stop somewhere before we hit the road? And maybe put clothes that don't reek on?"

Derek snorted. "Yeah. Let's go."

They ran up the porch steps back into the Hale house.

* * *

Sheriff Stilinski considered himself a hard to surprise individual. Dealing with Scott and Stiles for fifteen years had given him a lot of experience in what he considered to be strange and unusual behavior. If he couldn't handle finding them out in the woods at 3 in the morning after hearing on the police scanner a dangerous mountain lion was on the loose, he couldn't handle anything. He was, however, unprepared for his son showing up in the middle of the morning looking like he was recovering from a barfight with a dark stranger who looked no better on his heels. Stiles looked antsier than usual, which, considering that the sheriff had been there during the amphetamine crisis of sophomore year, was saying something. Their clothing didn't fit them well either; on Stiles it was loose and baggy, and on the stranger it was tight everywhere.

He reached out to hug his son, who embraced him closely in return. "How come you didn't call me back, Stiles?" He didn't mean to sound so hurt and worried.

Stiles gave him a half smile and shrug in return. He looked around the porch again as though he expected more people. "Dad, can we come in? Please?"

The sheriff stepped aside, carefully watching his son and the stranger. They moved almost in sync, as though they had been together in the trenches and had to learn each others' body language or die. Stiles went immediately for the kitchen, with his companion trailing awkwardly behind them. The sheriff followed them with his arms crossed. He found them pouring bowls of cereal like they hadn't eaten in days.

"Stiles, you need to tell me what's going on." The sheriff leaned against the counter and stared hard at his son. "Right now."

"Dad, I swear," Stiles said around his bulging chipmunk cheeks, "I will tell you everything, but we haven't eaten anything substantial in about... days. Just, let us eat, okay? I promise." He gave the sheriff such huge, pleading eyes that even he, well trained in the art of puppy dog eye deflection, sighed and caved in.

Three more bowls of cereal and an entire box of Honey Bunches of Oats later, the three of them sat at the dining room table. Stiles still looked around at all the windows, twitching like a squirrel.

"Sheriff Stilinski." The stranger spoke first. The sheriff looked at him, really looked at him, and was surprised to find he recognized him; at least, he thought he did. He saw a younger, gangly youth in his mind: all toothy grins and dark ruffled hair.

"Call me John," the sheriff said, scrutinizing him further. The stranger blushed and sunk lower in his chair. "You look awfully familiar, son. Did you live around here or something? Ever get into trouble?"

"No, sir," Derek mumbled. He blushed even harder and if he could have, he would have hidden behind Stiles.

Stiles snorted and came to his rescue. He leaned forward towards his father, an uncharacteristically serious expression on his face. "Dad, I need to tell you a lot of stuff. You're not going to believe most of it, and then you're going to try to help but that's not what we need, so just listen, okay?" His brown eyes bored into the sheriff's.

The sheriff nodded curtly and settled back with his hands folded on his stomach, waiting.

Stiles launched into their unbelievable story. He started back at the medical office, the shooting, and back to the hotel in Virginia. He stuttered around bathing a naked Derek and dived right into the fight at Derek's apartment.

"Yeah, so after that guy attacked us, we got the hell out of dodge, it was fuc-freaking crazy, and Derek just -"

The sheriff bolted straight up. He stared at Derek and said wonderingly, "Derek Hale. I remember you and your family. You're supposed to be dead."

Derek's answering shrug bordered on sheepish. "Yeah. That's what they tell me."

"But that's the thing, Dad!" Stiles interjected. His arms were windmilling around his head. He continued, "Derek works for the government and he kind of quit and that is why we had to run for our lives -"

"Stiles." The sheriff pinched the bridge of his nose. "Are you seriously telling me you're being chased across the country by the CIA with a governmental werewolf assassin? Is that seriously the story you're giving me?" He looked disbelievingly from his son to Derek and back.

"I can prove it," Derek said. He stood and grabbed one of the dining table chairs. "There's blood on this chair from when you were tied up earlier this week. I can smell it even though you cleaned it with bleach." Derek extended his claws and ripped deliberately through the fabric cushion on the seat. The cottony pieces of fluff fluttered through the air.

John Stilinski's jaw dropped. Not only did no one outside the precinct know about the break in, but long, razor sharp claws had just sprouted from this man back from the dead. It was almost more than he could take.

"The man who broke into this house was my uncle Peter. He broke in here to intimidate us into coming back so he could trap me and kill your son. He's dead back at my old house. I killed him." Derek paused, looking almost contrite. The claws retracted. He breathed out hard through his nose, trying to rein in the much more powerful and unfamiliar wolf inside him. Stiles unconsciously reached out and hooked his pointer finger through Derek's pinkie. The sheriff did not miss it.

He leaned back, shock still evident on his face. "How do you -"

"Know about that?" Stiles barked out a humorless laugh. "Well, he's got super senses," he explained, pointing his thumb at Derek, "and I got a video over the weekend. Peter, working from orders from the CIA, threatened to kill you and Scott and Allison if we didn't come home."

Derek growled out curtly, "We came here because we're leaving again."

The sheriff looked between them again. "What do you mean, you're leaving again?"

"We need to leave, like, immediately," Stiles said. He nodded up, towards his own bedroom. "I need to pick up some stuff and then we're hitting the road again. They're still going to come looking for us, and when they find out how much I know..." He didn't look frightened, for which Derek was unashamedly proud. He looked determined.

"But what about school? Your job? You just got that job four months ago!" Stiles' father gestured wildly around his head, and Derek saw where Stiles got it from. "What about me?" He sounded almost heartbroken.

"Dad!" Stiles reached forward for his father's hand. He grasped it solidly. "I will try to keep in contact with you and Scott as much as possible. But I'm doing this because I love you and I need to protect you. This is the best way, the only way."

Derek growled and nudged Stiles with his knee. They had already been there too long.

"Mr. Stil – John," Derek started, his arms spread in some apologetic gesture of peace, "I never meant to get your son involved with this."

"So un-involve him!"

"It's not that simple," Derek shook his head. "But I promise you, with every fiber of my being, that Stiles will be safe with me. I will never let anything happen to him."

The sheriff gestured at Stiles' bruised face. "Clearly something has happened to him! His nose is – is broken and don't tell me that wrist isn't either. He's walking like an old man and I haven't heard from him in a week. Tell me the truth, Derek – am I ever going to see you two again after today?" Derek and Stiles shared a look. It was impossible to decipher, but sadness drifted from them like a wave.

"I-I don't know, Dad," Stiles whispered. He stood, with the sheriff mirroring his every move. "I love you, Dad. Please trust me."

The sheriff recognized that face on his son. It was the face of an eight year old so determined to see the New Year through he stayed up til 3am and crashed for the rest of the next day. It was the look of a fourteen year old with his first weight set and a whole summer in front of him. It was the glint in his eye he used to have when he talked about the late, great Lydia Martin. Stiles would get his way, one way or another. He felt tears prick his eyes, but he wouldn't stop them.

"I love you, Genim," he choked as he pulled Stiles in for a fierce, protective hug. Derek looked away, anywhere but the two of them.

They hastily grabbed a few of the extra suitcases from the downstairs closet. Stiles emptied his closet of the last remaining clothes he kept there and all his most valuable comic books. He grabbed his old laptop and went into the bathroom. When he went to grab deodorant, he bit back a laugh and left it on the counter.

His father tossed him a small black something before they left. "It's a burner phone," he muttered, "still has minutes on it. Call me. Call me as much as you can. I'll deal with the – the body at the Hale house. And Derek?"

Derek forced himself to look the sheriff in the eye.

"I knew your mother. She was a woman of her word. Make her proud. Protect my son." He gripped Derek's shoulder tightly. "Make sure I see him again soon."

Stiles tackled his father in a hug. "I love you, Dad," he said again. They gripped each other until their knuckles turned white when Derek let out a near silent whine. Stiles squeezed his father one more time, then he and Derek bolted out the front door, taking the steps two at a time until they got to Peter's black sedan. They buckled up and waved briefly to the sheriff before driving down the quiet suburban street towards the highway.

The first thing Stiles did with the disposable phone was dial Scott's number. Allison picked up on the third ring.

"Oh my God, Stiles!" Her frantic voice was tinny through the speaker.

"Allison, my favorite lady!" Stiles' happy grin reached up to his eyes. He gave a brief thumbs up to Derek and turned back to the phone. "I would love to chat, seriously, but I need to talk to Scott right now."

"He – he's about to leave for Deaton's office -"

Derek heard a tiny male voice on the other end of the line. After a few seconds of arguing, Scott must have taken the phone from Allison because the male voice was much louder. "What the fuck, Stiles? Your dad and I have been trying to talk to you for days."

"It – it's complicated, man," Stiles answered. "But... you're not going to be able to reach me very easily from now on. I'll try to check in with you and Allison, expect lots of emailing, but I won't be around much."

Or ever again.

There was a sad sigh on the other side of the phone. "Should I go talk to your dad?"

"Yeah," Stiles sighed in return. "He can tell you everything. I'll call again in a couple days, all right? And I love you, Scott, and Allison too. I promise I'm going to be okay. Me and Derek, we'll be okay."

"Derek?" Scott's voice vibrated with uncertainty and jealousy.

"Scott, dude, he's just – he's nearly as awesome as you, I swear, and he – just talk to my dad."

"You're freaking me out, Stiles," Scott coughed on the other end. "More than usual."

A humorless laugh left Stiles. Derek turned his eyes from the road to look at him. His face was drawn as though he was about to be sick. "Yeah, well, it's been a weird week for me."

"Should we – I guess we shouldn't wait to open up Christmas present, huh?"

Stiles groaned. He rubbed his eyes and muttered, "No, go ahead. You'll have to check on my dad. There's no way he can handle an iPad on his own."

There was a moment of quiet over the phone. "Stiles?"

"Yeah, Scott?"

"We decided on a name. Daniel Genim McCall."

Stiles sputtered, "Are – are you being serious right now?"

"Of course I am." Derek could hear a female voice agreeing in the background.

They were almost at the highway entrance headed back east. "I-I have to go, Scott," Stiles murmured. "I'll – or my dad – everything will get explained, I swear. I'll try to email you later this week."

"Okay, dude." Scott didn't press for anything more. "Take care. We'll send pictures when we can."

"Love you, man." Stiles clicked the end call button and stared at the phone like it was something he'd never seen before.

"It's a good name," Derek grunted lamely as he drove onto the highway. The traffic was light, considering it was past rush hour.

Stiles didn't answer. He threw the phone into the backseat, agitated. After a few miles he said dully, "There's a shopping plaza up here. We need to switch cars."

"Shopping plaza, huh?" Derek attempted to respond lightly. "It was just a Burger King the last time I was here."

"Dude," Stiles shook his head, "that Burger King has been gone for years. It's a Panera now."

"What's a Panera?" Derek scanned the intersection in front of them and turned his confused face back to Stiles.

"You're so lucky you have me with you," Stiles chortled, the ghost of a smile on his face.

Derek extended his hand and took Stiles' in his. He tried to comfort him through just the touch of his fingers. "I know, Stiles," he whispered. "You ready for this?"

"Hell yeah." He grunted and opened the door. They had parked in the very back of the parking lot next to an old Nissan Pathfinder. Stiles blocked Derek from view as Derek jimmied the lock open. They loaded their stuff in and started the car before two minutes had passed.

Stiles jumped into the driver's seat before Derek could. "You hardly slept last night. I got this, at least for a little while." He shooed Derek to the passenger seat.

They grabbed sandwiches at Panera before they left. Derek wolfed his down and pulled out the paper he'd snatched from an empty table. He asked Stiles as they drove further from Beacon Hills, "Who's McDaniel in Gone With the Wind? It's six letters across."

"Hattie."


	13. The Beta Strategy

**AN: **I do not own Teen Wolf or the Bourne movies.

* * *

David Cross didn't like to work on the weekends. He much preferred to spend it with his family, since he saw them so infrequently because of his job. However, after the disturbing news that Peter Hale and another unknown beta had been murdered in Beacon Hills and Alpha 1 was nowhere to be found, working on a Saturday was the least of his problems.

He settled himself in his office early that morning and pressed the intercom. Frances answered cheerfully, "Do you need a coffee, Mr. Cross?"

"Yes, Frances. The usual." The intercom crackled when he removed his fingers from the red button.

The Puppeteer reached into a drawer in his desk and pulled out Alpha 1's file. It was noticeably thicker than it had been only a few days before. Photographs of new crime scenes, documentations and a lengthy psychiatric evaluation describing his defection were all crammed inside. He also grabbed the new manila folder with the name "Genim Stilinski" on the top. It too was surprisingly bulky, even though the name on the top had only been written there ten days previous. It contained everything they knew about Derek Hale's new packmate.

The door to his office creaked open. "Thank you, Frances," he said absently, without looking up.

"M-M-Mr. Cross, y-you have some v-visitors." The Puppeteer slowly lifted his head from his desk.

Alpha 1 had his secretary by the throat. His eyes were bright red in the early morning gloom of the office and his lips were curled up in a snarl. Genim Stilinski was right behind them, holding a Sig Sauer in his steady hands and aiming directly for him.

"Mr. Hale," Mr. Cross said in a clipped voice. He gestured at the chairs in front of them. "Please sit down."

Slowly Derek released the secretary. She stumbled into a chair in the corner and rubbed her bruised neck. She was shaking uncontrollably. Neither Derek nor Stiles followed suit. Stiles kept the gun trained on Mr. Cross.

"I'm here to formally give my resignation from this organization." Derek loomed over the mahogany desk.

"I got your call two weeks ago, Alpha 1," the Puppeteer sneered. He leaned back in his chair, his hands folded sedately on his chest. "I didn't need a formal exit interview with you."

"Fuck you," Stiles growled. His finger creeped imperceptibly towards the trigger. A warning grumble from Derek, a minute glance, and Stiles took one step back. The Puppeteer smiled coldly at their dynamic.

"I prefer my wife to do the work, thank you Mr. Stilinski." The Puppeteer opened their folders and presented them on top of his desk. "What is it you two want, exactly?"

Derek stepped closer. His eyes were still red. "I want to be left alone," he growled. "I am done with your organization. And Stiles and his family, they're out of it. Forever."

Mr. Cross shook his head. His smile was still cold as he explained, "You can't expect to walk away without some consequences, Alpha 1. There are rules. You signed your life away to me when you were seventeen. You can't have it back." His smile changed to something dangerous and predatory. "I am, and will always be, your alpha."

Derek roared. The secretary shrieked and cowered further into her chair. Neither Stiles nor the Puppeteer flinched at the impressive display.

"We are done here," Derek hissed through his elongated fangs. He slammed his fists down on the desk and felt a swell of satisfaction when the Puppeteer's eyes widened. "If I even think you're coming after Stiles, his family, or me, there is no measure to how fast and how hard I will destroy everything you care about. I will burn this place to the ground, do you understand me?"

Mr. Cross slowly removed his glasses from his face. He wiped them deliberately on his silk tie. "Interesting metaphor, considering your history, Derek," he murmured, checking the glass for spots. "And don't think I didn't notice how you put Mr. Stilinski's happiness before your own. Very interesting, indeed."

A shot rang out in the office. Frances screamed again. Derek and the Puppeteer looked up to see a perfect, crumbling circle in the wall just a foot above their heads. They looked at Stiles, whose face was lined and serious.

"Trust me when I tell you we are not fucking around," Stiles threatened. "You don't want to mess with a brand new alpha and his pack."

Mr. Cross looked between them. "You're not a werewolf yet, Mr. Stilinski. You're nothing but a weak -"

Derek was across the desk in a flash, his clawed hand tightening around the Puppeteer's throat. "Finish that sentence, Mr. Cross. I dare you." His voice was a deadly whisper.

The secretary panted in fear as the three men stood in a dangerous stand off.

Derek finally let him go. He backed up to stand with Stiles. "We're leaving now," he said. He picked up the files with their names on them and handed them to Stiles. Stiles took them one-handed, not taking his eyes off the Puppeteer. "Remember what I said. Don't even think about coming after us." They backed slowly out of the office, with Stiles still keeping the gun pointed directly at the Puppeteer's head. The door closed with an audible click.

Frances broke first. She burst into furious, terrified tears and fumbled for her cell phone.

"What are you doing, Frances?"

"I-I have to call the FBI, sir," she stammered, her fingers poised over the buttons.

Mr. Cross stood and gently took her phone. "You should go home. Have a cup of tea, watch daytime TV."

"But Mr. Cross -"

The phone sailed across the room and shattered against the wall with impressive force. Frances covered her head and looked at her boss in horror.

"Go home, Frances," he said softly. "That's an order."

As she fled the office, papers flying in her wake, the Puppeteer settled himself back behind his desk. He pulled out an older black cell phone from a drawer and dialed a number from memory.

"This had better be important, David." The voice at the other end was strangled with tiredness. "I just got in three hours ago."

"We need a meeting today. By 0930 hours."

"That's – Jesus, that's only two hours from now. What for?"

"Alpha 1 and his... mate."

"I thought they were taken care of?" The voice sounded much more alert now.

Mr. Cross shook his head and rubbed his eyes. "Apparently not. We need to re-evaluate our contingency protocols. Get a new team ready. I'll get started on that before you get here."

"What are you going to do now?"

"I have to make a few calls, and then I'm going to destroy the evidence here at base," Mr. Cross sighed. "We'll start from scratch, brand new team, brand new everything. No fuck ups this time."

"Keep the science, would you? That stuff – the loss – it couldn't be quantified."

Rolling his eyes, the Puppeteer said, "I know what I'm doing. Just get the team here by 0930."

"Will do. And David? What are we going to do about Alpha 1?"

"I have ideas. Just get here, will you? We can discuss the Beta strategy when you're here."

They hung up simultaneously. Mr. Cross sighed again and rubbed his temples, willing the headache building there to go away. Derek Hale and Genim Stilinski were becoming more irritating by the minute.

He grabbed the cell phone again and dialed another number. A female voice answered on the first ring. "Mr. Cross? Is that you?"

"What do you think, Victoria?"

"I-I'm sorry, I just haven't heard from you in months, and -"

"Get the pack together," Mr. Cross growled, "and come to Langley. Now."

"Yes, sir. Right away." She hung up.

The Puppeteer stood and stretched behind his desk. When he finally opened his eyes, his irises were red.

* * *

**AN part two: **I'm kind of setting it up for a sequel. ^_^ Just the epilogue next and that'll be that!


	14. Epilogue

**AN: **I do not own Teen Wolf or the Bourne movies. Thanks to everyone who's read this fic! I appreciate it!

* * *

They had moved to Portland, Maine after their brief stop in Virginia. Derek's old landlord had been ecstatic to hear his favorite tenant would be coming back to stay for a few months. Paying on time, extra, in cash, ensured privacy and stability. Stiles had still been worried, no matter how much Derek reassured him.

"How long do you think we can stay here?" Stiles asked quietly. They had taken a bus to Maine after abandoning their last car at Logan Airport. It was full of college students returning home and businessmen too cheap to drive to and from Boston.

Derek didn't respond immediately. He brooded out the window and watched the gray scenery pass by. The clouds threatened snow. He eventually answered, "I have another... stash in the apartment I used to live in up here. We can pay on a month by month basis for a little while, recuperate, regroup."

Stiles looked around quickly and whispered, "Don't you think Cross is going to figure that out? Doesn't he have, like, records of all that stuff?"

Derek shook his head. He murmured back, "I never used my real name on any lease agreement and I always paid cash. Even the CIA has a few limits. Besides, as long as I did my job they didn't care where I lived. I doubt they'll even remember I lived in Maine." He stared back out the window.

Stiles squeezed his hand. "It's gonna be alright, dude." They were still holding hands as they disembarked from the bus and caught a taxi.

The first thing they did after moving everything in was find the local library. It was a tall glass building in the center of the city, across the street from a square with a war memorial in it. Derek watched Stiles carefully from the stacks while he got on the internet and answered his emails from Scott, Allison, and his father. Their Christmas celebration had clearly been a lot of fun. Stiles giggled at the pictures Scott had sent of his father struggling with the new iPad. Derek appeared from behind the stacks after about half an hour, and they left as inconspicuously as possible.

Two weeks after they'd settled in, Stiles found a job as a bartender at a local pub. Without medical school or his internship, he'd found he was very, very bored. Derek warned him to be careful, that it wasn't really necessary for him to go out and work, might even be better if he didn't, but Stiles insisted. A bored Stiles was a very unhappy Stiles, and damn if Derek didn't want him to be happy. He thought others might consider Stiles his greatest weakness. He thought of Stiles as his greatest strength. Loving someone didn't make him weak, didn't make him relinquish control. It made it impossible for others to control him.

Derek showed up every evening at the pub where Stiles worked. Stiles huffed about it, complained that he was scaring customers away with his surly stare and disregard for jackets in the middle of January, but when Derek leaned across the bar to softly kiss his frown away, he smiled and blushed like a teenager. The pub also welcomed musicians and bands sometimes. It wasn't a very popular or crowded bar, but plenty of people still showed up.

It turned out Derek could play the banjo.

One evening, a Mumford and Sons cover band stepped up on stage to play. Stiles was wiping the bar while Derek sat on the other side, nursing a rum and coke. Suddenly, one of the band members tripped off the stage and ran to the bathroom around the corner. Stiles rolled his eyes as the sounds of sickness floated back into the pub.

The rest of the band shrugged awkwardly and continued setting up. It seemed to Stiles like it was a regular occurrence. When the sick bandmate didn't show back up, even when they were done setting up their equipment, they looked around dejectedly. The singer stepped up to the microphone and said softly, "So... I guess we're down a banjo player. Any... anyone here play? I mean," he trailed off into a whisper, "Mumford and Sons?"

The bar fell silent. Stiles shook his head, feeling sorry for the band, when Derek finished the last of his drink and stepped up to the stage. He took the banjo from the singer, whose face resembled something close to a religious martyr seeing God. Plugging the banjo in to the amp, he strummed a few melodic chords, tuning it to his liking, before attaching the fingerpicks the singer offered him.

"Un-fucking-believable, dude," Stiles whispered as they started quickly into "I Will Wait." Derek's face was contorted into concentration, completely focused on playing. Stiles hadn't even known he'd liked Mumford and Sons. Then again, the radio was still off limits whenever they drove together.

One of his coworkers, a pretty girl named Sarah, bumped him on the shoulder with the tray of food she was carrying. "Your boyfriend's good," she winked at him before whisking away.

Stiles picked his jaw up off the floor and went back to stacking pint glasses behind the bar. He tried not to stare at Derek's arms, the way they moved over the arpeggiated notes, but he couldn't not. A customer actually had to snap his fingers in front of Stiles' face to order a beer and some nachos.

The rest of the night wasn't much better, in the sense that Stiles was too distracted by his own erection to get much work done. He slammed beers too hard on the bar and shot death glares at the women who were staring unashamedly at Derek. Sarah rolled her eyes humorously as he growled at one particularly buxom redhead who was crowding the stage.

"Stiles," she soothed, "just remember he's going home with you tonight, not them. Relax, dude."

"Holland Road" turned into "White Blank Page" turned into nine more songs before the next band slated to play forced themselves on stage, effectively ending the Mumford and Sons' band's set. Derek shrugged off the banjo strap and handed the fingerpicks back.

"Hey man, do you think you'd want to play again with us sometime?" The lead singer followed Derek back to his seat at the bar and sat beside him. "You're wicked good."

"Yeah," the redheaded woman said throatily as she sat down on his other side. She paused to glance at Stiles and shake her empty beer bottle, her eyes wide and demanding. As Stiles bent down to fetch her a new one, she continued, "You were really good up there. I'd love to watch you play again. More privately, of course." The last sentence came out in a throaty whisper.

"Maybe," Derek shrugged to answer the singer. He ignored the redhead and picked up a pen to write his email address for him.

Stiles bent back up with another full beer in his hand. He handed it to the woman and said, "That's $5."

She threw him a crumpled $5 bill and took a swig, her eyes never leaving Derek's face. As the singer walked away ecstatically, she leaned forward and whispered, "I'm free tonight. What do you say?"

Derek grunted. Stiles saw the ghost of a smile on his face. He busied himself making Derek another rum and coke.

"I'm not interested."

The redhead spluttered. "Are you serious?" She set her beer down angrily and gave him an ugly look. "What, are you blind?"

"No." Derek smiled when Stiles when he handed him his drink. "I only have eyes for one person." He leaned over the bar again and pressed his lips to Stiles' again, effectively silencing the woman. She gasped and grumbled away, sloshing her beer everywhere as she went.

"When did you get so poetic? And when did you learn to play the banjo?" Stiles grinned into Derek's mouth.

"Since you," Derek answered simply. "And when I was fifteen."

A door slammed open behind them. "Stilinski! Stop making out with your boyfriend and get back to work!" His manager, Mr. Finstock, yelled at him from the kitchen. "I swear to God..."

"Sorry!" Stiles called back.

Derek let out a rare grin, finished his drink, and kissed Stiles' cheek. "I'm gonna head out. Call me when you leave, okay?"

"Dude!" Stiles pushed him away playfully. "Go away. I'll see you later." Stiles blushed again as Derek left, leaving a $20 behind to pay for his drinks.

* * *

Stiles left the bar after two in the morning, when it closed. He shrugged on his parka and snapped earmuffs on over his ears. Sarah, a native Mainer, always laughed at his getup.

"I'm from California, babe. The whole cold thing just doesn't happen there quite like it does here."

She laughed again, wrapping a scarf around her neck. "You'll get used to it. Besides," she hugged him and turned to walk down the street towards her apartment, "summer in Maine, there's nothing quite like it." Sarah waved goodbye and headed home. Stiles smiled at her and trekked the four blocks back to his and Derek's apartment on the eastern Promenade. His building was a tall white one of the corner, with a maple tree in the yard. Across the street were tennis courts and an empty playground. The ocean past that was capped with white waves Stiles could see clearly even in the night.

He pulled out his key and unlocked the front door. His tired legs groggily carried him up the flight of stairs to the apartment. Groaning with tiredness, Stiles unlocked the door and stumbled inside.

Instantly he was wrapped in a fierce, protective hug. He squeaked in fear as Derek pressed him against the wall, his face buried with his forehead against Stiles' shoulder. Stiles felt something hard in Derek's hand press against his back through his parka. A cell phone! Stiles mentally kicked himself for forgetting to call.

"Derek," Stiles soothed, "I'm sorry, I'm really sorry I forgot to call, but I'm fine! Everything's fine."

Derek growled and pushed Stiles further against the door. His head banged uncomfortably against the painted wood. When he looked up, his eyes were red and his fangs were poking out between his lips. "You can't fucking forget things like that, Stiles!" He shook his head, fighting off the alpha wolf inside him. "You – you need to call me, I need to know you're still safe."

With a sigh, Stiles wrapped his arms around Derek's neck and pulled him closer, not in the least bit frightened of the alpha wolf. "I'm good, big guy. We're okay. I promise not to forget again."

Derek grumbled and let him go, but kept his face against Stiles' neck. Breathing in Stiles' scent, he felt himself grow calmer, grew more satisfied the younger man was safe and alive.

Stiles threaded his hand through Derek's and pulled him into the bedroom. He kicked off his shoes and threw his jacket onto the ground. Before he could take off the rest of his clothes Derek tugged him onto the bed and wrapped his arms around Stiles' waist. Stiles smiled and allowed himself to be spooned against Derek's solid chest.

"I missed you," Derek whispered in his ear after a few minutes of quiet snuggling.

"Dude," Stiles laughed, "you saw me four hours ago." He turned in Derek's arms to face the older man. "I mean, I get it, I'm your whole world and everything, but -"

"Shut up, Stiles." Derek cupped his cheek and kissed him solidly on the lips. Stiles grinned and tugged on Derek's shirt, lifting it above his head. Derek rolled out of his and sat up, lifting up Stiles' shirt as he went. Stiles reached up to stroke the dips and curves of Derek's abdomen. A hand caught his own though, and Derek pressed a kiss into his palm. He left hot, open mouthed kisses up Stiles' arm to his bare shoulder, and dipped his head lower to leave a trail continuing across his flat stomach.

Stiles closed his eyes and leaned back into the pillows. He ran his hands through Derek's messy hair, pulling him back towards his face. Their lips met again, Stiles nipping at Derek's lower lip until his groaned. He turned them over and climbed up on top of Derek, crushing him into the mattress and grinding their pelvises together.

"I'm going to blow you," Stiles whispered against Derek's neck. He bit down on his throat when Derek shivered. "It's the least I can do to make up for not calling you."

Derek groaned again as Stiles began his own journey down his chest. His tongue flicked out as he nibbled his way down the trail of hair disappearing into Derek's jeans. He gripped the sides of the waistband and pulled them agonizingly slowly down his thighs and over his feet. Only his black boxer briefs remained.

Stiles reached out and cupped Derek through the fabric and continued leaving bruising kisses around Derek's hips. Derek had the blankets fisted in his hands. Stiles looked up to again see fangs peeking through his lips. Slithering up Derek's body, he pressed a chaste kiss against his cheek and rubbed his own growing stubble against Derek's. "If you ruin the blankets with your claws, you're paying for them."

Derek opened his eyes. The bright red irises gleamed as they rolled. He lifted his hands above his head and rested his wrists on his forehead. "Better?" He asked, half mocking.

Stiles snorted and went back to the V of Derek's legs. He wriggled out of his own jeans and perched on Derek's thighs, running his hands up and down them. Stiles reached into his own underwear and pulled his own half hard cock out, just barely thumbing the head. Derek's eyes were trained directly on his hand.

Settling himself between Derek's legs again, Stiles pulled Derek's cock out. Still palming his own erection, he bent down and sucked on Derek's testicles. He licked a long, thin stripe against the skin and stroked Derek's cock up from the base, priding himself on the low hiss that passed Derek's lips. His own cock hung heavy in his palm, begging for attention. It was leaking precome and the head was flushed a deep red.

He took Derek into his mouth unexpectedly and moaned when Derek thrust unconsciously into his mouth. His tongue followed the path of his lips as he went. Derek bit out a low whine as Stiles eagerly sucked on him. He pulled off briefly to lick his palm for less friction, then stroked Derek more firmly. His strokes matched the demanding pace of his lips.

Stiles kept stroking but his lips left Derek's cock again. He kissed his hips, the insides of his thighs, and continued downwards until his tongue circled Derek's entrance.

Derek moaned out, "Jesus, Genim," as Stiles pressed his tongue against Derek's hole. He licked and flitted his tongue inside, again matching the pace of his hand. For each long stroke, he stretched Derek with his tongue.

As he felt Derek shiver and tense, preparing to come, Stiles lifted his head and attached his lips to Derek again, swallowing every last inch of him. Derek didn't bother to control himself anymore and thrust upwards into Stiles' mouth. On the fifth thrust he came, biting back a shout by stuffing his wrist into his mouth. His lip split where one of his fangs had caught it. Stiles sat back on his heels and wiped a trace of come away with his thumb. His own cock still hung in his hands.

He was unprepared when Derek flipped him over. Stiles yelped as he landed on his back, Derek's weight pinning him into the mattress. "Apology mostly accepted," Derek murmured against his throat.

"M-mostly?" Stiles sputtered. Derek's groin, already half hard again, pressed against Stiles' straining erection. He gasped when he felt Derek's hand against it, stroking him gently.

"Yeah," Derek breathed, "mostly. You're still a pain in the ass." He gripped his own cock and lined it up with Stiles', rubbing them together.

Stiles arched underneath him. "I haven't even fucked you yet," he said, a wolfish grin beginning to dominate his face.

Derek rolled his eyes again. He leaned up onto his hands and knees and took Stiles into his hand. Stiles wantonly thrust up into his palm, desperate despite the friction, and came quickly, spilling over Derek's hand. He gaped as Derek licked every last drop of come from his knuckles.

Eventually they kicked off their underwear and settled back to sleep, the post coital haze affecting them both. Stiles cradled Derek in his arms and snuffled into Derek's hair with a smile.

"I have the day off tomorrow," he mused. "Do you want to do anything?"

"Sure," Derek yawned. "There's an island I want to take you to. Take a walk. Build a fairy house."

"A – a what?" Stiles leaned up to look at Derek's face. The other man's eyes were closed as if in sleep and his mouth was shaped into a small frown. He looked completely serious. "Derek, how gay have I made you?"

"You'll see when we get there," Derek muttered. He tugged on Stiles' arms to pull him back against him.

Stiles shrugged and settled down again. In less than a month his life had turned upside down. They were still afraid for their lives every instant. His family, three thousand miles away, was all but lost to him. It was heartbreaking, and yet, Stiles thought, as his eyes closed in sleep, not all of his heart was broken.

Some of it lived inside Derek Hale.

As Derek fell asleep, wrapped in Stiles' arms, he thought that going to that exit physical, as much of a trap as it had been, was the best decision he'd ever made.

* * *

**AN part two: **So, I live in Maine, and I can tell you that everything I mentioned here is 100% accurate. Interestingly enough, it's canon in the books that Jason Bourne moves to Maine with his wife after the first book. Boo yah!

Prepare for the sequel!


End file.
